the Curse of the Voodoo Queen
by geeves
Summary: They're in New York when Sam and Dean Winchester run into Cal O'Sulivan, Luke and Morgan Enfield again . This is a collab piece written with the lovely and talented Cakehole Cat sn.tv where our favorite characters collide.
1. Chapter 1

_So my friend, the lovely and talented Cakehole Cat, and I have been working on a collab. fic over on Sn.tv. It's a crossover between our AU fics (Cat's Like the Rifle and my Winchester vs O'Sulivan) and, if I do say so myself, it is AWESOME!! Hope you all have as much fun reading it as Cat and I have writing it:)_

_All the usual disclaimers, of course. We don't own Supernatural or anything remotely related to it. We're just taking the boys (and that wonderful Impala) out for a joyride through our twisted imaginations. :p Also, fair warning to all, this one's a little more risque than my last few. Please pay attention to the rating. _

_Enjoy the read guys, and don't forget to pop in a review when you're done: )_

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the Curse of the Voodoo Queen  
_Winchester's, Enfield's & O'Sulivan: It's Thriller Revisited!  
Stay tuned for the preshow folks: Snakes In a Frickin' Sewer_

Darkness falls across the land,  
The midnight hour is close at hand.  
Creatures crawl in search of blood,  
To terrorize your neighbourhood.  
And whosoever shall be found,  
Without the soul for getting down,  
Must stand and face the hounds of hell,  
And rot inside a corpses shell..

_**Chapter 1: **__Swamp Thing- I Once Caught a Fish This Big_

Nobody ever said hunting was a glamorous job. Hell, most of the time it was actually pretty awesome. Well okay, so maybe 'awesome' was a little too enthusiastic a word for what they did. Especially since at the moment it involved slugging through the sewers of New York city looking for something Dean wasn't so sure they were going to find.

"So this thing we're looking for?"

"It's a Leviathan."

"Yeah, about that. Are you sure that's what we're after here? I mean, aren't those suckers supposed to live out in the ocean? And hey, while we're asking questions here: aren't these things supposed to be you know…" He spread his arms wide, measuring out the empty space between gun-toting hands in the way of one talking about having caught a fish _this big_. "Huge?"

And there it was: the patented Sammy scowl. Like he couldn't have seen _that one_ coming.

"Look, everyone we've questioned so far saw the same thing: giant tentacles and lots of big sharp teeth dragging away sewer workers that nobody's seen since. Sure sounds like a Leviathan to _me_."

"I don't know man, it just doesn't feel right."

Blowing out a frustrated breath Sam stopped in his tracks and whirled around to face Dean. He'd just lost his grip on that last little bit of patience he'd been clinging to for hours now.

"Alright then! Let's say I'm wrong, which for the record _I'm not. _What do _you _think it is Dean?"

Caught off guard by a question he hadn't been expecting, Dean faltered. Sam watched, savoring the satisfaction of seeing his brother's mouth work open and closed as he struggled to find an answer and came up empty handed. Still, Dean just couldn't resist filling the silence.

"Oh, I don't know… Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Or hey, maybe the Swamp Thing decided he wanted to visit the Big Apple. You know, take a little vacation away from the bog or …aw hell, could be the Blob for all we know."

"Yeah, sure and the next thing you know Godzilla's gonna come waltzing out of one of those pipes to invite us back to his place for coffee. Dude, it's a _Leviathan _alright? Cut the crap already. The sooner we find this thing and kill it the sooner we can get the hell out of here."

Silence but for the sound of their breathing and the drip-dripping of that mysterious, smelly wet stuff they'd noticed sweating its way through the metal piping everywhere down there. Then, just as Dean was about to throw his arms up in defeat and relent to going back to the search, a squelching sound that might've been footsteps echoed around them.

"Looks like the Turtles ordered out tonight." Dean couldn't resist the crack.

"Dude, that's not even funny." This from a surprisingly unimpressed Sam.

"It's a little funny" 'Cause Sam might not have been impressed, but he sure was smiling.

"Nope, pretty sure it's not."

_Squishsquashsquish_ The footsteps were getting louder and seemed to be getting closer though it was hard to tell for sure given the echo down there. Still, never hurt to be careful so weaponry at the ready Sam and Dean cautiously advanced towards the most likely direction the sound might have come from.

They'd just reached the nearest intersection of man-sized drainage pipes when whatever it was that was squishing and squashing was replaced with a loud thump-squelching sound. The godawful screeching that followed was just about loud enough to cause their eardrums to explode.

"_Alright Swamp Thing, I've had enough of this _crap_! Hide n' Seek time's over, come and get me so I can waste you already will ya?" _this followed by a decidedly unhappy female grumbled complaint. _Gonna take me weeks to wash away the stench of this place._ Took a second for them to realize the voice was a familiar one.

"Oh you've gotta be _kidding_ _me_! Caitlin?" And yeah, maybe the use of her full name wasn't such a great idea in retrospect. If he hadn't then maybe she wouldn't have come tearing out of the tunnel with the business end of her knives pointed right at him, up close and personal-like.

"Dude, _what _is my name?" There was no room for negotiation here. It wasn't the time to explain actions. Hell there was barely enough space between her temper, the knives and his stubbled jaw line for breath. Still, somehow he managed to eke out a greeting.

"Hey Cal, how's it going? I'd say I'm happy to see you but under the circumstances…" he tilted his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement of the sharp, pointy objects that were way too close for comfort before finishing with a: "not so much."

"I told you before, Winchester: the name's _Cal_. Next time I won't be so nice when I remind you, _compris_ (understood)?"

Wow, less than five seconds in her general vicinity and already Dean had her so worked up she was reverting to the French. Well, yeah. That was about par for the course. At least this time she hadn't kneed him in the jewels. An improvement really, if you asked Dean... not that anyone had.

Nodding a quick hello to Sam, Cal sheathed her knives back into her boots.

"So, uh, what're you doing here Cal?"

Seemed like the appropriate question to ask seeing as the last time they'd run into her it had been in Canada, on her parent's farm.

"When a girl catches wind of the Swamp Thing moving into her backyard she does something about it."

Something like chop it up and burn it to a crisp which, as far as Cal was concerned, was just the only way to get back at the damned thing for making her trudge around in the muck.

"Oh great, not you too." Sam was at his wits end. "Look, there's just _no way_ I'm gonna believe there's a comic book character living down here and eating people for kicks, okay?"

Surprised, Cal just stared. Sam wasn't generally the type to just blow up unprovoked like that. There was just one person who could be responsible for this outburst and she didn't hesitate to turn on him.

"Dude, what did you do to him _this_ time?"

But Dean wasn't listening, or rather he wasn't listening _to her_. Something else had caught his attention. There was an odd hissing sound coming from the very tunnel Cal had just come barreling out of.

"Pizza anyone?"

Cal didn't get it, but judging from the eye roll Sam did.

They were moving towards the tunnel trying to get the upper hand, hoping to get a look at whatever it was before they'd have to fight it. The water under their feet began to ripple violently as if something was pushing it down the tunnel. There was something strange about the way it was moving though… the water was passing their boots from heel to toe rather than…

"It's _behind_ us!" The hunters turned with the sound of Sam's cry which came just as the massive scaly monster came barreling out from the bowels of the earth.

"A _snake_?" Flabbergasted, Sam wasn't sure he could believe what he saw.

"A snake!" Dean actually sounded excited.

"Oh _great_." Cal on the other hand, not so much.

Actually, in her opinion calling it a snake would be insulting snakes everywhere. It was huge, gross and looked like an overgrown leech with more fangs than Cal was comfortable with. If there was one thing in the world she truly loathed, it was snakes. Her first reaction was to turn and run as far and fast as her legs could take her, which is exactly why she stood her ground and did the exact opposite.

Pulling her knives back out of their sheaths she took a deep breath in anticipation and sputtered as her nostrils were filled with the awful stench of rot the thing seemed to carry with it.

_Well_, she'd come down here intent on pest control…

They didn't notice her charging toward the thing until it was too late. One second she was between them, staring Slimy the possessed snake down and the next she was _straddling it _and trying to hack her way through. Unfortunately for Cal, her knives might as well have been toothpicks. They hurt like hell going in but did very little damage.

Sam and Dean could do nothing more than watch as the snake started writhing, launching Cal into the air and twisted itself around to watch her fall in a heap to the ground.

She hated getting the wind knocked out of her. Hated that all she could do was lie there and wait to be able to move her body again, or you know…watch as the overgrown worm with teeth decided to make her its midnight snack.

Fangs bared the snake hissed loudly, coiling into and around itself before rearing up and lunging toward the prone form that had just attacked it.

Dean had just enough time to take in the sight of Sam running towards Cal to try and pull her out of harms way before he raised both his arms, took aim and fired straight into the snake's gaping mouth. What happened next, none of them could have anticipated…although in retrospect they probably should have.

It was like watching a dragon breathe fire. The bullets hit home and created a chain reaction that set the scaly giant aflame. No amount of thrashing could put the blaze out, no matter how hard the snake tried.

Cal and Sam were somewhere in the deep, dark smoke that surrounded the burning heap of monster. Dean could hear them coughing, could hear the sound of their boots splashing in the grungy water that was now ankle deep. He couldn't see them though and that alone was enough to scare him. Big ass snakes he could handle. Loosing Sam or even Cal knowing he'd been the one to take the shot that set the thing on fire in the first place? Definitely not something that fell under the 'I can deal with it' category.

He didn't have to worry long though, thank God. A few minutes that felt more like hours or years went by and then the snake curled in on itself and its head hit the ground with a loud thump as it finally lost the fight.

"Sam? Sammy! You guys okay?" Dean called out into the smoke filled tunnel trying hard to keep the worry out of his voice and the 'big damn hero' mask in place and just barely succeeding. A mask that dissolved into a fit of near hysterical laughter when Sam and Cal finally stepped out of the smoke where he could see them.

They were covered in burning snake soot so that the only parts of them not a solid black color were their eyes and lips. Sam's hair had curled up wildly from the humid heat and Cal's was a tangled mess that oddly resembled a wasp nest.

"Yeah, yeah Winchester; you go ahead and laugh." She scowled ugly at him and turned to Sam. "Personally I think the missing eyebrows suit him. You?"

"I dunno Cal. I don't think it'll be as easy for him to pick up girls this way. I mean, that eyebrow arch thing he does?"

"_Right_. I see your point. It _is _his best move, isn't it?"

They managed to keep straight faces just long enough for Dean's face to twist into mortified panic and for his hands to fly up to his face to check for himself. When fingertips met hair where, according to them, there shouldn't have been he bit back a growl.

"Haha guys, very funny."

"Yeah well, you deserved it didn't you?"

He didn't have an answer for that one.

They stuck around just long enough to be sure the thing really was dead. Together they salted its corpse and set aflame the parts of it that weren't already burning. :

Dean frowned, kneeling next to the slimy, smoking corpse of the giant sewer snake. "Huh. Well that was a little disappointing."

"Disappointing?" She asked, because seriously… was this guy for real? "_Disappointing?!"_

"Yeah, you heard me. I mean, it was just a snake. I was kinda hoping it would turn out to be the Swamp Thing."

"We just wasted the monster-snake-from-hell. Did you not see me struggling to literally saw the damn thing's head off? Did you not watch it spontaneously combust from the fumes down here when you _shot at it_? And after all that you can say tonight was disappointing?"

"Uh, yeah. Pretty much."

There was a loud _smack_ as Cal's hand met the back of Dean's head.

"_OW! _What was _that _for?" Confused and rubbing the offending sore spot he turned so she could fully appreciate the dirty glare he sent her way.

But she was already storming past him into the dark disgusting maze that was New York's sewer system, muttering _idiot_ under her breath as she went.

"Hey! Where're you going?"

"To grab a long hot shower and then out for a drink. We just killed Snakezilla, I think that calls for a little celebrating."

"Good idea, we'll come too."

"Okay, but I've gotta warn you Winchester: you step foot in my bathroom while I'm in there I won't be responsible for you loosing body parts, _compris_?"

Dean was smart enough to keep his mouth shut to that particular statement. Unmade promises couldn't be broken after all, now could they?

"You know what, I think we should head back to the motel and meet you at the bar Cal. We don't have any clean clothes and I'd just as well not walk in there smelling like roast snake and sewer." Fortunately Sam knew his brother well enough to anticipate and avoid that particular situation entirely.

"Okay then. O'Leary's in an hour. See you guys there." And with that she hoisted herself up a metal ladder built into the wall and out the manhole to the street above them.

Dean watched her every wiggle, deciding instantly that the view definitely worth his while. Wasn't until after she'd gone that he realized what a mistake going to the bar with her could be. Last time they all went out together he'd ended up with a black eye. Oh well, what were the chances she'd want to hit him again? Better not to dwell on that question actually, because he had a sneaking suspicion the odds of that happening were better than he gave them credit for.

Ah, but if it meant he'd get to see her in that ribbon-thing she called a blouse? Totally worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2: **__How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bombshell._

The clouds which scudded across the sky were doing so at quite a pace, belying the calm in the city below, which seemed (to the untrained eye) to be sheltering in the lee of a strong wind. Then again, appearances can be deceiving. For example – at first glance, the moon was full. At second glance, it was waning. At third glance, those bloody afore-mentioned clouds were in the way, not to mention the looming black shadows of skyscrapers, towering silently, so far overhead that the mere concept of Higher Up seemed to dwarf the firmament.

All was quiet up there.  
_Bollocks..._  
But that's weather for you – no sense of drama.

Morgan took her eyes off the little window which was all that was visible of the starry sky (in any case obscured by the smog of the city), and sighed.

'Cheer up, Morgy!'  
Said an infuriatingly cheerful voice beside her.

Morgan kept right on walking, staring straight ahead – but she did reply:  
'I've just spent seven consecutive nights in the arse-hole of the city. Don't tell me to cheer up.'  
'Why not? Could be worse!'

'_How?_'

Silence, then:

'...There could've been snakes down there?'

Morgan wasn't an extroverted enough speaker to smack herself in the face, right then (or better yet, _him_), but if she _had _been, she _would _have. And the noise would've reverberated down the empty street they were, even now, walking down – which was, instead, echoing to the sound of nightlife from a bordering road. This one was painted blue by starlight, in the absence of any actually still-functioning street-lights, and its alleys housed the kind of lovely people whom newcomers and tourists hope to avoid.

Well, these two weren't tourists. They _went looking _for the kind of people you met in dark alleyways, and then stopped them making that bump in the night.

When they weren't having one off, that is:

'Luke-'  
'Or alligators!' He suggested, getting creative. 'Or- uh, Giant Sewer Rats!'  
'Seriously. Stop talking-'  
'Or mutant ninja turtles! Dude, that would've been _awesome_-!'  
'_Shut-up __**now!**_'  
'Or that bloke who looks like Darth Vader got a Cheese-grater Hat for Christmas- what's his name?'  
'"Kill me now"?'  
'No-o, that wasn't it... Catchy though.'

Not for the first time, Morgan gazed at the heavens in supplication. At least when the Moon was full she didn't have to put up with Captain Wow talking about how fcking awesome everything was. All she had to do was suffer some immense physical pain, and then emerge from a storm-drain, in the morning, having spent the entire night rolling around in what could only be optimistically described as "gunk".

Easy-peasy lemon-squeezey – although she'd already seen enough pieces of discarded lemon-rind, in her life time, to last her several.

So tonight, she was off-call, and off the hook, too. The last evening of serious Lunar-Influence had been last night. So now she was (as Luke so delicately put it) house-trained again. Out of the dog-house. Allowed on the furniture again – the works. And, Luke being Luke, that meant a night on the town.

'So we're just going to _one _place, right?' Morgan began, in a casual, would-be stern voice.  
Luke chuckled (somewhat sinisterly, she considered) and draped a friendly arm around her shoulders.  
'Ah, Morgy...' He said, gazing in philosophical reflection at the distant city lights. 'Would I lie to you?'  
'Y-es. Yes you would. On my deathbed.'  
'Oh, well, that's all-_right _then! (Given the circumstances...)'

Morgan slowly turned her head, Terminator-style, to glare at the face inches away from her own.  
'Yes.' She said. 'It's amusing when people die gruesomely, isn't it?'  
Luke grinned to himself.  
'Honestly now, Morg, I promise you! It's just the one place! A nice _traditional _Irish pub.'

Morgan tried to see the catch.  
'...it's not St. Patrick's Day tomorrow, is it?'  
'Nope.'  
'...Hurley Championship finals?'  
'Nope!'  
'_Bono's Birthday?_'  
'Nothin' like that!' Luke raised his hand. 'I swear!'  
'So how d'you explain the guitar?'  
'What guitar?' (Morgan held her hand out above Luke's head, and he choked as it caught on the object sticking up, behind him). 'Oh, _this _guitar?'  
Luke laughed, nervously.  
'That's just a... um-' (His face was contorted in an agony of invention) '-_roll-bar_...'  
'A _roll-bar_?'  
'...In case I want to do handstands...'  
'Is that likely?'  
'Think who you're talkin' to f'ra second, here, Morgy.'  
'Alright... Point taken...' She shuffled his arm off her shoulders and sniffed in the cold. 'So where is this place – _O'Leary's_.' (Which surely had too many apostrophes to be disreputable).  
'Around here, somewhere,' Luke answered, paying more attention to their surroundings. 'Just follow the trail of crack & hooker-spit. _Joking!!_' (He added hastily, ducking as she raised her arm again).

Morgan grumbled to herself as they exited the street, but Luke was used to that, and wouldn't let it dampen his mood as he kept pace alongside her, hands perched jauntily in his jeans-pockets. He had a nose for a good time, and he could tell it was going to be a Good Night. You could say he felt it in his water (but Luke had much more inventive names for that, and, in any case, we can't print them here... there isn't the time).

Just around the corner from the Enfields, a limo full of African-American women pulled up on the curb.

This is only a rough description, though, and not technically true, because one of them was only black because she was still covered in un-scourable grime from her job in the sewers. It was also a fact that most, if not all, of these women were, in fact, _men_. The sewer-worker (now known as Francesca) was just catching forty in the corner of her seat, because she'd been working over-time all day to compensate for the raft of missing workers, lately.

Lola (who was nearly six and a half foot tall and took size fourteen heels, but only from specialist retailers) was behind the wheel. She was smoking one of her own-rolled herbal cigarettes, (mostly cinnamon, sweetie), to make up for the ever-present smell of fish, which haunted her from her job as a fishmonger, down near the docks.

She and they were _just_ distinguishable as human, amongst the thick choking clouds of smoke... which spilled out, damningly, into the night, as the Cop (who was the reason they had pulled over) pounded on the window, already being rolled down. He took in the diva who was staring at him, wild-eyed, from the driver side, and then let his eyes wander, coldly, to the sight of the sewer-worker – apparently passed-out in the passenger seat.

Acting on a crazy hunch, he took a wordless step to the side and hammered on the door to the back.

More smoke spilled out, and the sound of a breathy, soft voice saying "This is the one, girls, this time it's gunna _work!_" was cut off in mid-sentence. The cop stooped, and gave the passengers inside his best thousand-yard stare of generalized, undiscriminating dislike. He couldn't entirely tell where one body began and the next one ended, in the back. It was more like looking at one big, hairy, many-limbe'd black octopus, covered in sequins, glitter, fake-eyelashes, ridiculously high-heeled shoes and a mystery white powder. Probably talc – or maybe snow, from the _Ice in Hell._

It seemed to be involved, somewhere, with a kind of strange street graffiti they'd been working out on the floor – big X marks with circles at the end of each arm, and over the cross-sections. There were low-burning tea candles strewn on the floor, quivering to the rumble of the engine. Little perfume-sized, brightly-painted bottles (of what he fully suspected to be PCP) were lying everywhere, and the place stank of "insense" – harhar. There was a big sheet of tin-foil laid out, too – and covered in that same "unidentified" powder (which someone was sneezing over).

(It was actually a mix of red chili pepper, Goofer dust and all other juicy stuff, but the cop wasn't to know that.)

The sneezer in question was the only one conscious or stupid enough to look directly _at _him (and who was doing so brazenly). It was a 6-foot "man", his large 'fro tinted a deep electric blue at the tips, to match his unusual pale-blue eyes.

He was wearing a plum-purple basque, made of diamanté-studded velvet, and the silver-sheened stockings peeping out, from the top of his knee-high (viciously-pointed) platform stiletto-boots, were attached to a similarly diamond-strung garter belt. As it happened, his birth-name was James – although, among this particular group of friends, he went by the name Jazz (which, but for a small typographical error, would've suited him on _all _levels).

Like I said: _Looks can deceive_.

The Cop had found his citizen, and stepped back from the door.

'Sir,' he drawled, in a bored voice. 'Step outta the vehicle.'

The afro-haired apparition emerged from the limousine in a shower of glitter, like the gayest butterfly you've ever seen from the chrysalis.

'Spread your legs and grab your sack,' the Cop droned.  
'I can rub my head and pat mah stomach, at the same tahm, too, if you like?' Jazz suggested.  
'...Hands on the vehicle, sir.'  
'What, you want me to move It with mah _mind_?'

_Bang! _He hit the side of the "vee-hicle" with force – this one had clearly had his sense of humor removed (probably via the stick in his rectum) – and, against his will, Jazz did as he was told.

He wasn't cowed, nor was he concerned – but it was best to stay quiet at a time like this. He'd been found in possession of curly hair, a great tan, and thick rubbery lips. It was an open n' shut case, Y'Honor. So Jazz spread his fabulous hands on top of the limo roof, and prepared himself for the all-too-familiar indignity of having some random white-dude's hand rammed up his neighborhood.

...He wouldn't have minded if the guy had just had the common decency to buy him a _drink _first!  
I mean, my _gosh!_

People were walking by, either hurrying their step as they went on to the noisier, funner streets, or slowing down to cat-call and poke fun at him (in which case they at least brought one more thing to the proceedings than Mr. Cold-Finger).

What Jazz didn't notice (as his mind was on lower things) was the gorgeous couple who appeared on the street corner – among the millers and lookers-on – and paused as they took in the scene. He didn't see that the male of the pair darted forwards, ducked to the side, and then sneaked along the procession of cars parked behind the limo (in a bus-stop at the end of a long line), hidden from the Cop's view.

Jazz _did _think he registered the sound of a door clicking open, though – but only realized what was going on when a stranger emerged from the limo on _this _side of the road, straightening up to regard the police-man amiably. He had climbed in, from the sidewalk-side, and was now pretending to have been in there the whole time.

'Something wrong, officer?' He asked, in an extremely cultured English accent.

Jazz was just grateful the guy'd already removed his hand, that was all – the amount he _jumped_? There could've been serious kidney-damage done, back there. The cop stared at the blond man, and then _goggled _as a beautiful black-haired woman appeared, beside him, from inside the limousine. No, she wasn't beautiful, she was _ridiculous_.

'You're _with _these people?!' The Cop squeaked, sounding close to break-down. Why, it wasn't fair, springing a genuine-_woman _on a man!  
'We certainly are,' said Blond-guy, waving a hand. 'Look, my guitar's in there with us and everything.'  
'Suh- sorry sir, ma'am!'  
'That's alright,' she was saying, in a naturally deep, modulated voice. She folded her arms. 'What seems to be the problem?'  
'You- uh... your vee-hicle was weaving, miss!'  
'Was it? I thought the ride felt a bit bumpy.'  
'Didn't I _say _that, Camilla!' the blond-man nodded, enthusiastically.  
'Well, the driver's from an agency. We'll make a complaint and get him-' she glanced at the driver-side window '-_her_, suspended.'  
Morgan gave the Cop a look which, she was unaware, had once reduced Luke's school-friends to _putty._  
'Was there anything else?'  
'You...you...' If the man had bust out crying, it wouldn't have surprised anyone. 'You sure are _smoking _a lot in there, miss.'  
'And? That's legal in Britain.'  
'Well... it... ain't here, miss.'  
'Sorry officer! I didn't know we couldn't do that!' Blond-guy chimed in, his face creased with honestly perplexed concern.  
'Y- that's alright, sir. I'll let you go, this time.'  
'Oh, _thanks_, officer!'  
Devil-eyed woman nodded, tilting her head graciously. 'Thank you.'  
'You're welcome!'

The Cop, wilting under her unwavering gaze, turned robotically on the spot, and jerked off back to his bike, where he paused to sit, for a moment, with his helmet over his lap. Then he rode off, and it was only _then _that Jazz removed his eyes from the view over the roof, and unfroze enough to thank his rescuers.

He took in, first, the black-haired woman – whose elegance vanished, instantly and unwomanly, in favour of a kind of tense, coiled poise, like a puma about to pounce. Jazz enveloped her in a wave of glittery arms.

'Girl, I could _kiss you all over the face _right now!' he cried, in that breathy, silken voice of his.  
But he soon let her go. Despite her looks, the woman was evidently one of those un-emancipated types, who could drink any man under the table but broke into a cold sweat when it came to laying one (a _table_, that is).  
'No problem.' She said, shortly, and cut her eyes at the man beside her, clearly expecting some kind of reaction.

Which was when Jazz turned _his _eyes, too, on the blond-man, and almost laughed out _loud _at how utterly and completely the sight knocked the wind out of him. He was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing Jazz had ever seen, outside of Fifth Avenue.

'And you are...?'  
'Luke Enfield!' He smiled, and it was _painful._ 'This is Morgan.'  
'Great to meetcha, Morgan,' Jazz murmured, weakly, not even looking at her. '...And you, Luke.'  
'Sorry to butt-in, there, mate,' Luke was saying. 'I saw the pig, and I couldn't resist havin' chops for dinner – y'know what I mean?'  
'Yeah... yeah I really think I do.' Jazz's Luke-stunned gaze drifted sideways to Morgan, who was eying him with a distinctly _knowing _look in her eyes. If he doesn't know by _now_, it said, _I'm _not going to tell him.  
'And you two super-heroes... you're really British?' Jazz breathed.  
'Yes.' Said Morgan, carrying the conversation.  
'Thank _God _for that!' Luke echoed her, sounding relieved. 'If you'd said "English" I'd have had to smack you.'

'_Five seconds_,' Jazz thought. '_And he's all-ready offering to smack me. Can I get a Hallelujah/A-__**Men**_'

'Baby, you can smack whatever you _want_,' Jazz replied, a wide white smile spreading across his face, as his blue eyes sparkled charismatically. 'After _that _rescue? Mmm-_mmm_!'

'Hmm. Got any bitches?' Luke asked, in a voice of mock-concern. 'I hear it's the done-thing.'  
Morgan sighed and rolled her eyes, but looked privately amused by the back-and-forth.  
'Shall we get on then?' She addressed her brother, nodding as if towards their exit – and found herself instantly enveloped, again.  
'Oh, _hell_ no, baby!' Jazz breathed, voice breaking on the higher pitches. 'You comin' with _us!_' And before they knew what was happening, the Enfields were being spooned into the back of a large shiny limousine full of Hoodoo-fixin' Drag-Queens.

Things like this happen all the time to Rockstars...


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3: **__Smokin' Drugs Doesn't Kill People, Smokin' Hot Chicks Do_

_Oh ye-ah_. Nothing like a long, hot shower after a romp in the sewers. It figured she'd find herself fighting a stupid snake. If this hunt had been a B movie it would've been called 'Snakes In a Frickin' Sewer' and there would've been an angry Samuel L. Jackson running around shouting angrily and helping her salt and burn the damned thing.

Speaking of impromptu hunting partners, running into those Winchester boys had been a nice surprise. One that _almost_ made having to go down into the bowels of the city to kill off Snakezilla worth it. She wouldn't actually admit it to Dean, big egotistical caveman that he was; but she'd missed that cocky smile of his. There was no doubt about it, Dean Winchester was one hell of a good looking man. His brother Sam wasn't so hard on the eyes either…which was why she was taking her time 'cleaning up'. When a girl goes out on the town with two incredibly hot men she's got to hold up her end and do them justice, right?

Well that was her official story anyway.

See, she'd delicately squeezed herself into this shirt… well okay, so maybe calling it a shirt would be giving it too much credit. The incredibly sexy little number: an embroidered scrap of shiny silver material, was held together by nothing more than six taut strings that ran from shoulder to opposite side. The tension of the strings and her curves the only things holding it in place. It was a work of art. Positively _sinful_… and it would drive poor Dean _insane_ to watch all the guys at O'Leary's tonight ogling and doting on her hoping to get the chance to take her home.

There was just nothing in the world that she loved more than driving poor Dean Winchester out of his mind. No doubt about it, this was going to be an _awesome_ night!

* * *

The Winchesters arrived at the bar a full fifteen minutes ahead of time. Well what? The chick liked to make an entrance… and if '_the ribbon_' was making an appearance then Dean wanted front row seats for it. Not that he'd admit to it or anything, but _still._ Better to get there early was all he was sayin'. 

They would have got there even sooner except that some psycho on a motorcycle had cut them off on the way over. Wasn't until Dean got stuck behind him at a red light they realized the guy was a cop. They watched, shocked and amazed as the dude nearly tipped his bike over just sitting there. Apparently it was enough to snap him out of whatever daze he was in because as soon as the light turned green again he pulled his bike into the nearest parking lot and got on his radio.

"So what do you think _that _was about?" Sam was caught between being amused at what they'd seen and wondering just what exactly was wrong with the guy.

"In this city? Who knows man. Who _knows_."

* * *

'Lu, baby, get your face _outta_ that, it's _nasty_!' 

'I thought you said it was talcum powder?'

'So? You're white _enough_!'

'Too bloody right,' Morgan's voice joined the conversation in a growl. 'If I catch you doing anything stronger than pot, boy, I'm going to break your fckin' _legs_.'

The Girls _howled_ with glee and threw their heads back, slapping long-nailed hands together and, variously, petting Luke for his endearingly stunned (and stunning) face, _and_ petting Morgan, for the way she glared at them all, utterly thrown off by their approval.

The Enfields were pair of sardines in the glittery tin, half concealed by the great waves of sparkling fabric and fishnetted legs which were crammed into the back bench of the limo. There were other seats – but, for some reason, since Luke had arrived, all the other divas had chosen to A, wake up, and B, force themselves into as close a proximity as possible. There was barely room to _breathe_.

And Morgan – who would have ripped off a giant sewer-snake's head without missing a puff on her cigarette – felt distinctly ill at ease in her current surroundings.

Not to mention under-dressed. She was wearing cropped khaki combats (the deep pockets were handy – she had Betty down there, locked & loaded, right now), which were to compensate for the height of her steel-toed, scudded old combat _boots_. On her top half, her favourite sleeveless, army, tank-top (which had two red studs on it, where the eyes of the tusked Motorhead skull were). And only a pair of Luke's woolly, striped, elbow-length gloves to stave off the cold.

Also, they were all the better to hide a extremely slim-line knife down.

Oh, and there was a chain-link knuckle duster, concealed in sections on her cuff-watch...

Which was easier to read in bad light.

...What?

Anyway, unless you hadn't already guessed, the whole lot of it was chosen, basically, for the ability of its darkness to hide blood stains. And usually Morgan wouldn't have been bothered by this fact at all – but at a time like this, in this _company_, they made her feel like the biggest, dowdiest dyke since the time Luke passed out and got lipstick drawn on him in jest. So now she was wedged anti-socially into the corner, against the door, trying fruitlessly to get her fag lit with one of the other ones was repeatedly jogging her elbow.

Luke, on the other hand, was sitting in pride of place, right in the middle (his guitar leaning opposite him), in the middle of a crowd of gaily-appareled grown man-ladies. Totally unperturbed by the un-reciprocated attention they were giving him – they had already pulled out his ponytail to see his hair down, wild – or by the fact that they were all clearly, blatantly, trying to get him wasted. Trying to get Luke high was like – well, pissing in an ocean, really. You almost had to pity them.

He was wearing his trademark hippie jeans – slung CK-baring-ly low, because he was always so fidgety – and, besides the Strat', there were two signs that he was anticipating a more eventful evening than Morgan. First, that he wasn't wearing any socks under his red Converse. Second, that, under a thin navy-cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up, he had on only a plain old-T. Dark khaki-brown, it was, and had had the sleeves cut jaggedly off, at the shoulder. This suggested he was expecting _whatever_ he wore to get ripped to pieces, so he'd chosen with wildness in mind – and you weren't exactly going to get up to _those_ kind of high jinx in the Russian Tea Room.

For now, though, Luke was trying on _new _clothes.

'What about this?' he said, hidden underneath the brim of a flower-studded bucket hat.

'Naw, you look like you just came outta the woods, honey.' Someone replied (meaning that it obscured his face, and they didn't want anything of this golden boy concealed).

Luke whipped it off.

'Alright...' He cast his eyes around at the swathe of things they'd laid out for him, (on top of the tin-foil) and struck out at one. 'Oh-ho! This is the job, mun!'

He was holding up a extravagantly-sequinned coat, striped with all the colours of the rainbow, and with a huge matching feather-boa trim, all the way down the front, right to the hem, and around the cuffs. He'd seen a similar one, black and beaded, many moons ago, on a right-goer called Sandy – and he'd ended up wearing that one, too. Although he'd technically wound up with a demoniacally-possessed black dude for the night (long story).

Anyway:

'Whatcha think, Morg?' He asked her, going over the heads of the men-women faffing all around him.

'Crackin'...' she replied in a monotone, without looking up, and _finally_ got her cigarette ignited.

Interestingly, the only one who wasn't trying to sit on Luke's lap, or have Luke sit on theirs, or be hugged by him, etc., was Jazz.

He was in the opposite corner from Morgan, his long (and actually damn-good) legs, in their platform stiletto-boots, crossed, extending along the door, and coming to rest on the window-ledge. He was watching the proceedings with sparkling eyes, though – electric-tinted afro bobbing through a haze of smoke – and they strayed to Morgan ( who was the one watching him) with a lot more intelligence than you'd credit. She suddenly realised that he wasn't in _drag_, as such – he was just cross-dressing.

Luke, meanwhile, had shuffled forwards on his knees, and was trying on the technicolour dream coat with a flourish.

'_Awesome_!' He muttered to himself, as the drag-queens looked on, running his hands down the front of it, where it hung from his chest like a sheath of psychedelic fish-scales. 'I can _just _see this on _Tommy_! Does it come in mens?'

'No,' Jazz replied. 'But I betcha _you_ can, if you lahk.'

Peals of delighted laughter filled the limo, once more, and Luke looked up with one of those typical Sheepish Little Brother grins, and Morgan had to smile - or... y'know... at least allow the corner of her mouth to become less murderous... just...

Luke looked to Jazz, then, as the laughter went on, and suddenly did a double take. He hunched forwards a little, peering into Jazz's face from where he knelt, and then nodded to himself.

'Only just noticed your eyes,' he said, meaning Jazz's baby blues. 'Are they contacts?'

Jazz smiled that wide-white wolfish smile again, and winked:

'I got plenty'a _contacts_, babe. Why don't y'ask me again in the mornin'?'

Luke guffawed, and it was just at that moment that he glanced out of the window, past their host, and jumped.

'Oh!' He yelled, scrambling to the front, to bang on the window to the cab.

'Sh!t- _whut_?' was the reply.

'Do a U-Turn!'

'We in a _limo_, dawg!' Came the indignant cry.

'So?!'

Lola the driver had just noticed who was addressing her.

'...So hang on, sugar!!'

And damn if the assembly didn't use that as an excuse to "accidentally" fall over the place, quite possibly "accidentally" over Luke, in the process, shrieking in a wheel of flailing limbs as too many tires screeched on tarmac, and the whole, long vehicle swung ponderously around. Traffic was honking to a halt behind them, in front of them, to the side. People on the pavement were either screaming and running out of the way or peering in, to try and see what Britney was getting up to these days.

Lola took of the handbrake and stamped on the gas, lurching them down the road, now in the opposite direction, until Luke smacked on the glass, once again, and got him/her to slam the brakes on outside a building which shone with a bright, cheery neon bar-sign.

The queuing crowd of onlookers, outside _O'Leary's_, watched, with wonder, the many-limbe'd people-octopus come tumbling out onto the sidewalk before them – screaming hoarsely, and triumphantly, as it hit the concrete.

Some parts of it harder than others.

'LUKE!'

Morgan was a furiously foul-mouthed bundle of movement, extricating herself from the clutches of an (evidently suicidal) feather-boa, and looking dangerously close to hauling off and strangling the whole lot of them with it.

'WHAT?!' Luke yelled cheerfully back, straightening the front of his LSD-patterned coat.

Morgan faced him on the freezing pavement.

'You- Yuh- YOU'RE AN IDIOT!!'

'Well, _SO_ ARE YOU!'

'YOU- what the _fck_?'

'That cigarette you just took a pull on ain't a cigarette, Sis...' Luke looked down, with her, at the thing in her hand, guerning uneasily (but with a little quivering mirth) at the sight of what was, quite clearly, a half-toked spliff. He put his hands on his hips – fingers half-concealed by the thick, multicoloured shawl of feathers which hung from his cuffs – and observed the evidence like a plumber might a problematic tap.

Morgan's gaze settled somewhere on the horizon, wondering whether it would be possible to throw someone over it.

'Marijuana?' She queried, in a strangled voice.

'Fraid so.'

A muscle twitched under one of her big, luminous eyes.

'_Sh!t_.'

'That _is_ one other title, yes.'

'Luke-!'

'Look, Morgy – we're in a strange _city_, in a strange _country_, on a strange _continent_. It's not like we're going to run into someone we _know_, is it?'

Morgan opened her mouth to hurl some abuse at him, just to help Karma along, but thought better of it. It was quite a _large_ crowd of onlookers.

'I spose not.' She admitted in a stiff voice – and instantly wondered whether the pot was mellowing her out. _Bollocks_. 'But it's not as if we're going to get a _chance_ to...'

Following the direction of her nod, Luke twisted around to survey the long, lone line of people – who were drinking in the view, men and women alike, wondering when that whole needing-to-queue-up bombshell was going to drop. They were rockstar-parked (Lola still sitting in the driver-seat, nodding to herself in quiet pride) below a round cheerful bar sign, hanging like a second moon overhead and outshining the beer-brand ones beside.

'Oh aye,' he said, unworried. 'This is it.'

'_This_? A traditional Irish pub?'

Luke pointed skywards. 'O'Leary's! Got an O in it! And an apostrophe! And drunk people! It's Irish!'

'So's Chris DeBurg, and I wouldn't join a queue to see _him_! Sod this-'

'Hey, _hey_!' Said a soft, stoner voice, and they turned to find Jazz bearing down on them, sweeping them both into his looming territory of muscled ebony limbs. '_Relax_! It's no biggie, baby, you're with _Jazz_!'

They noticed, at this point, that he had covered up most of the flesh on show with a long, long coat – sweeping right down to the floor. It was a luxuriant purple, like the Marilyn Manson getup underneath, and had a huge furry collar, echoing his 'fro. There were big slits up the side of the thing, though, which allowed him to push out the stockinged legs and outrageous boots, which he was doing, now, and provocatively.

'_You're_ going to get us in?' Morgan asked, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice. The people queued up outside were in various states of grungey disarray, hair dyed various interesting colours, covered in piercings. It looked like a _Rock_ club.

'Hell _yeah_!' Jazz insisted, sticking his hip out and folding his arms. 'I'm tight with Tyrone (that's the cat on the door).'

'Ahh,' Luke was nodding, sagely. 'You're going to use this mystical bond of black solidarity, eh?'

Jazz preened proudly.

'Sure, baby... And _then_ I'm gonna remind his solid-black-ass that I know his _sister_.'

'His _Sister_"?' Morgan asked, not finishing that sentence for propriety's sake.

'Yup.' Jazz caught her eye, and silently confirmed her suspicions.

'O-kay... Jesus. Jazz, does _everyone_ in this town cross-dress?'

'Aye!' Luke chuckled. 'It's like being in Australia again!'

Jazz struck an iconic pose, resting his weight on one stiletto'd heel.

'Everybodeh? Baby, they couldn't all pull this _off_!' He informed them, and with that, and the other divas in tow, he led them all up to the front door, past the waiting queue.

Tyrone – who was massive, black, shade-wearing and blank-faced, and who looked like he could've snapped Jazz like a twig – nevertheless shot to attention as the 'fro hove into view.

'_Ty_...' Jazz said simply, like a cat lapping cream, as they swept past...

* * *

O'Leary's wasn't quite what Sam and Dean had been expecting. Oh., they'd been out with Cal before but that didn't mean much really. There'd been that roadside biker bar type deal where she'd given him that black eye, and Fran's restaurant-slash-local pub place up North. Neither one anything like the other, and certainly not anything like the traditional Irish pub she'd picked out for them this time either. 

Not that they could get much of a look at the place anyway. Who'd have thought a little Irish pub in the middle of the Big Apple would be so packed? There was a line of people waiting to get in that streamed from the entrance halfway down the street and a couple of big, meaty bouncers at the door. From the looks of it the entire city had decided this was the place to be. They might as well have been at one of those trendy dance clubs where spoiled heiresses and pampered movie stars went to party. Funny how Sam didn't make any of the usual comments about how illegal fake police ID was when it saved them from having to wait in line.

It took a little maneuvering once they made it inside. There was a big group of young guys playing pool that didn't take too kindly to the looks Sam and Dean were getting from the girls in their midst. Ten of them, big strapping guys who were too preppy to be blue collar and too thick to know better than to pick a fight. Luckily guys like that were easily influenced by their women. Between Dean's flirting and Sam's size they managed to ease by the group without a brawl breaking out and snag themselves a booth about halfway between the door and the bar. Prime seats really; easy access to the waitresses, the pool table and a clear view of the door. When Cal made her entrance, they'd see it for sure.

The place was loud and just a little rowdy. Big too, considering the venue. The music was good, the house band playing some decent rock. The beer even better (none of the watered down crap they were used to here) and there was plenty of eye candy in the shape of curvy waitresses to keep Dean distracted. The only thing missing now was Cal… and whatever indecent little number she decided to try and clothe herself in _this_ time. What would it be, he wondered. A little leather? A miniskirt maybe? Those kick ass boots that stretched up over her calves to just under her knees for sure, she wore those things everywhere. Whatever it turned out to be he sure wouldn't be disappointed. Still, the waiting was hard, the anticipation killing him slowly.

As it was she _kept_ them waiting. The fifteen minutes crawled by, followed by another ten, and then another fifteen. Dean got bored of waiting real fast and dealt with in his own special way. Didn't take long for him to slide up to the bar and the hot little blonde there who, tragically, was all by her lonesome tonight. Hey, if Cal was going to make them wait he was going to make best of it right?

Sam, for his part, struck up a conversation with one of the waitresses, a political sciences major who was working on her final thesis. It was a nice way to end the night; warming the booth bench and nursing a beer while he entertained the pretty waitress. Hard to believe that they'd started the night under the city with Dean making cracks about vintage horror movie monsters and Ninja Turtles.

Cal finally decided to make her appearance a good half hour later than she said she'd be and, as anticipated, there wasn't a man in the bar who _didn't_ notice her walk in.

The solid wood door swung merrily inward, held open by the bouncer as if for some sort of VIP and then all you could see was Cal's smile, framed by the soft brown waves of her hair falling to her shoulders. Big blue eyes filled with mischief shone brightly enough to light up the entire room.

Dean had been right about the boots, black leather numbers that laced all the way up the front and just enough of a chunky heel on them to be feminine and practical at the same time. Her leather jacket matched her boots and the waist of it cut snugly across her waistline to show off the curve of her hips where it met the little jean skirt she'd thrown on. Its hem line was frayed so it looked like she'd simply cut off legs from a pair of jeans and called it a skirt. Who knew? Maybe she had.

She stopped briefly in the doorway after coming in, sweeping the room with those killer eyes and taking in the scene. Everything stopped, even the band paused mid-song like everyone suddenly decided to collectively hold their breath and admire the beautiful woman in their midst.

Then she was moving again, and suddenly there was a flurry of awkward activity. The band went on with its set and the crowds shifted to accommodate the newcomers' trajectory towards the bar. Sam noticed, with a hint of amusement, how every man she passed made a move to offer her their seat or pull out a chair for her. The rowdy group of men around the pool table had a running commentary going on her progress and the way her body moved. Even Dean got up from his stool for her when she got close enough to the bar to see him. She ignored them all though, strode straight up to the bar, lifted the flap and made conversation with the bartender as she poured herself a beer from the tap.

"Hey Maria. Busy night tonight?"

"Yeah babe. The place is packed, but then you knew it would be didn't you?" The petite redhead teased her.

"Why whatever do you mean, hun?" Yeah, she'd never had been very believable at the innocence stuff.

"Oh Cal, don't _even_ go there. You know damn well how this place fills up whenever you're in town bartending for us."

Grinning she shrugged and rolled her eyes playfully.

"Yeah right. They're all here to admire my sexy legs and my tight butt."

Dean had crawled back onto his stool by then though and let out a loud snort.

"Nah, that can't be it." No way he was going to be like every other guy in the place and feed her over-blown ego.

""Oh, you don't think so?" Cool blue calculating eyes looked him over from beneath arched brows.

"Nope, I'm thinking with _your_ temper it's just a matter of time before you knock some dude down a peg for admiring the packaging. These folks are just hanging around to see the show."

Of course that _would_ be the moment for the band to end their set.

"Dude, did you get a _load_ of that chick?" _Great_. Apparently those dudes over by the pool table thought it'd be a great idea to stroke Cal's ego a bit. The tall blond one who looked like he belonged on the front of a Wheaties box was letting his eyes wander _all _over Cal's best parts.

"Yeah man. Totally _hot_." This one was short and just a little stocky. Dean didn't like either one of them, especially now that they'd managed to produce that Cheshire Cat grin Cal was wearing. No good ever came from _that_ smile.

"Hottest chick here dude, fer shure" The blond guy was slurring his words a little, obviously a good ways into his Miller Time shift. Bunch of lightweights were drunk, No wonder they were talking about her like that. Yeah Dean, you just keep telling yourself that. Couldn't possibly be because they were right, could it? Nah.

"Hey dude, I'll betcha the next chick through that door's a total _dawg_ man. No way we're gonna see two girls _that _hot in _this_ joint." The short stocky guy Dean was now calling Mutt was looking to make up some of the cash he'd just lost to Wheatie's Boy in that last game of pool.

"'Kay, I'll take that action. Twenty bucks says you're wrong."

Random guys from all over the bar within hearing distance started putting their two cents in on who would win the bet and what the odds were on anyone being able to beat Cal's entrance.

Cal for her part was smugness itself. Well what? Could _she_ help it that these guys knew how to appreciate a girl when Winchester over there so obviously _didn't_? Feeling generous because of this and taking pity on a scowling Dean Cal picked up a fresh beer mug, filled it to the brim and set it down in front of him.

"This one's on me Winchester, but if the blond beefcake over there wins the bet you're buying the rest of mine for the night."

"You're _on_ SheRa" 'Cause that was a bet he sure _as hell_ was gonna win. No way the next thing through that door was gonna be a hot chick. Judging by the crowd in here next person to come through was probably gonna be _a guy_.

And then the door swung open.

"Aw _man!_" This coming from a _very_ unhappy Mutt.

"Pay up dude. No way you can argue your way outta this one. That one's just as smokin' hot as the one behind the bar." The blond guy was patting his buddy on the back with one hand and reaching for his wallet with the other.

Sam leaned over to get a look at whoever it was that had caused all that commotion by just walking through the door, and recognized her instantly. He couldn't help the "oh sh!t" of surprise, or the fact that the waitress jumped when he let it out.

He tried to wave Dean over, without being too obvious but all he got for his trouble was a two thumbs up and a lovely view of his back. When that didn't work he pulled out his cell phone and called him instead. Dean didn't even bother picking up though. Just checked to see who was calling him and then turned to wave Sam off. Whatever it was, it could wait. They had a night off and he was surrounded by hot chicks. Wild horses couldn't pull him away.

When Cal turned her hundred watt smile on Dean and waved over to the latest patron of the evening Sam knew his brother's fate had been sealed.

The look of utter shock that he'd lost the bet clearly visible on his face was _such _a _satisfying_ sight for her to behold, she just had to buy the woman a drink. Wasn't every day Dean Winchester lost a bet. She'd been dead wrong earlier when she'd though tonight would be awesome… nope, it was going to _ROCK! _

"Hope you brought your credit card tonight Winchester, you're gonna _need _it."

* * *

Morgan got a fresh cigarette lit _just_ as she stepped inside – luxuriant black hair falling sultrily all over the place. Scowling her dark eyes down at her lighter, her gloves bundled up around her forearms, like a travesty on those fur stoles old Hollywood starlets used to wear. 

The second the door swung to, a kind of roar of '_OH_!' went up- (she glanced up, hawk-fast) -from a pool-table in the back; where a man was staring at the door with a slackened face, hanging off his cue and being slapped, repeatedly, on the back, by a scrum of other blokes. Crowing.

Nonplussed, Morgan threw a look over her shoulder to see what the fuss was about. Oh yeah – the drag-queens. Luke was behind her, staring around eagerly, and looking like he'd just been Skittled in that bloody coat. He was dwarfed by the group of drag-queens, towering over him like exotic birds as they preened themselves in the entrance. He had spotted the mosh-pit, though, and his blue-green eyes lit up faster than her fag.

'Oh! Morg! Hold me shoes!' He muttered excitedly, hopping from foot to foot as he yanked the Converse off and then threw them in her general direction. Before she could tell him where, exactly, he could stick them, Luke had jogged off into the throng – and reappeared, moments later, as a crowd-surfing figure, on top of it. Which she had known he would, of course, by the absence of socks. Little bugger.

_T'riffic_. Baby bro gets to throw himself around a rock-crowd like a nutter, when all she wanted to do was get off her bleedin' feet and sit down with a nice quiet pint until this pot wore off.

Morgan paused to give _O'Leary's_ the critical once-over, tilting her head back and funnelling a long stream of smoke towards the ceiling, which arched far overhead. It was all brightly lit, with that special golden late-night glow which seemed to make every bar look warm and inviting. Still, the place looked alright, actually. Tidy, even. Provided Mr. Rainbow didn't pull someone else's girlfriend (as he had an annoying habit of doing) she might actually be in for a relaxing night.

Hoho.

Morgan surveyed the bar, now – sniffing in the suddenly-warmed atmosphere and pushing her hair back over her forehead. She managed to slip onto a stool right alongside it, despite the mass of people, and tried to catch the bartender's eye.

'Bottle of Jameson plea-' Morgan broke off.

Her broad-set eyes, already sparkling with the effects of the heat and the marijuana, widened even further, and her deep alto cut _right_ through the hubbub of the bar as she cried, in a throaty voice:

'Well, _fck_ me – _Cal O'Sullivan!_'


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4:**__ Breaking All The House Rules_

"Wait, what do you _mean _I'm going to _need _it?" Dean was eyeing Cal suspiciously. The girl was what? A buck ten in change, maybe a buck fifteen sopping wet. No way she could drink _that _much.

"Oh honey, you've never seen our Cal drink before have you?" Maria patted his arm, the very picture of sympathy. "The girl's a bottomless pit, I swear _t'God_."

"Flattery will get you everywhere Maria." Cal answered gaily before turning back to address the men crowding the bar. "All right boys, who needs a drink?" Amazing how many of them were suddenly thirsty for drinks with inappropriate names. When one of them ordered a 'Screaming Orgasm' she couldn't help the comeback.

"I hope you mean _the drink_ sweetheart 'cause I am _definitely _more than _you _can handle."

Dean groaned loudly at that, as if hearing her speak at all was painful but when she caught him checking out her assets she figured he wasn't that badly off.

Three shooter orders and a beer later the awesome chick who'd won her the bet with Dean had finally made her way over to the bar. Cal could tell without actually looking up just by the way the crowd shifted to free a stool for her.

"Bottle of Jameson plea-" Cal was already reaching for it and looking up, ready to pop the cap off for her on the counter when she noticed the dude on the dance floor and got _completely _distracted.

"_Jeez_us Maria, is that dude _crowd surfing?_"

Not that you could see much of him what with all the hands groping him and his arms and legs flopping around wildly.

Then a pleasantly deep alto voice cut through the din with a surprised:

"Well, _fck_ me – _Cal O'Sullivan!_"

Cal answered without so much as batting an eyelash:

"Sorry hun, it's a tempting offer but I just don't swing that way."

She could see Dean out of the corner of her eye fighting hard not to spit his beer out in surprise- and failing miserably. She looked up to where the voice had come from only to be welcomed by a familiar pair of broad set dark eyes…and Cal promptly dropped the beer she'd just opened for her. Well, there was a first time for everything, wasn't there?

"_Morgan_?" She had to ask first, because the chances of running into this many hunters in such a big city in _one night _was…well it was unheard of, actually. So you couldn't really blame a girl for confirming the facts, right?

"Morgan Enfield, like the rifle… right?." One look at her, though, and it was impossible to deny who she was. Morgan nodded slightly that, yes, it was in fact she: in the flesh. Hell, she was probably packing heat and an extra knife up one of those striped gloves of hers just in case.

Cal, who was just so _happy_ to finally be in the company of another sensible female, practically _launched_ herself over the bar to embrace Morgan and surreptitiously pat her down to confirm her suspicions. For curiosity sake of course, though the fact that Dean's eyes were practically popping out of his head might've had something to do with it too… the _Oh God, yes! _he didn't think she heard him utter didn't hurt either.

A quick glance over Morgan's shoulder, mid-hug, told her that Sam had come up behind Dean to help him lift his chin out of the puddle of drool at his feet. Then she was pulling away from her fellow huntress and taking in the sight of her. The woman hadn't changed much since that night they'd first met.

"Wow, Morgan Enfield gracing our little pub in the middle of the Big Apple! Well now, this calls for a round." One empty, open palm extended in Dean's general direction was quickly filled with the fraudulent credit card _du jour_. Poor guy had to be in shock to give it up so easily. Grinning triumphantly Cal hopped onto the bar, Coyote Ugly style, and every head in the place turned to see what she was up to.

"All right everybody! Next round's _on me_!"

The cheering that ensued rocked O'Leary's clear down to its foundations.

"Hey Cal!" Maria propped herself up next to Cal to make herself heard. "Crowd Surfer Boy at three o'clock. Looks _mighty_ thirsty if you ask me."

The gleam in Cal's eye produced a groan from the pretty bartender next to her. That smile meant trouble.

He was barefoot, that much was clear, and he was wearing the Technicolor Dream Coat from the looks of things. Tall, fair and hot enough that he ought to come with a warning label. _Do not look directly at the hot crowd surfer dude, risks include spontaneous combustion of ovaries. _Looked like Dean Winchester had some competition tonight.

So there she was, up on the bar… all eyes in her direction… openly ogling the pretty new boy.

And _that _was when she took her cue to reveal her fashion statement of the evening. Reaching up to the zipper at her neck she pulled it down just slowly enough to build a little suspense. One smooth, liquid motion had the supple black leather sliding down off her shoulders and bare arms until it hung from her fingertips.

"Hey Maria?" She asked innocently over the collective gasp of amazement that brought a hush over the noisy room. "You mind tossing this on a hook for me? I'll get started on those drink orders to give you a hand."

Dean's arm unfolded as his left hand reached out to grab Sam's arm for balance. His right hand formed a fist that went straight to his own mouth where he bit down on it, _hard_. The sight of Cal in that little silver barely-there _thing_ she was wearing just too much for him apparently. His mind suddenly warring over which explicit image to entertain first. Internal conflict pulling him between wanting to drape her over the bar and have his way with her right then and there or covering her up in his own leather jacket to hide all that… that… that _skin! _

Not that it wasn't _nice_ skin or anything. God, there was just _so much of it. _All creamy and covered in little barely there freckles… looked so _soft_ and…

A-nd _that _is when Luke's voice cut through his reverie with two words that he hoped _never _to hear in sequence _ever again._

"…Robot Spunk!"

* * *

Luke jubilantly exited the bouncing crowd, on a high (in more ways than one), and good-naturedly shook off, with a smile, the way a passing girl trailed her hand across his bare abs, almost dreamily (despite the fact that she had a boyfriend on her other arm!) He could still feel the shapes of other peoples' hand-prints, tingling on his skin like ghosts, where he'd been held up. His ripped old t-shirt, already reduced to sleevelessness, had been shredded by the studs and piercings and corrosive sweat of the throng – so he'd given it up. You got used to your clothes being worn away, in a club scenario. He'd lost Jazz's dream-coat too, in the chaos, and had had to tease it back from the persistent fingers of a girl who only gave it back in return for being allowed to grab both cheeks of his ass, in her two hands. (It turned out, she and her friend had a hand each – share and share-alike.)

People were doing something they often did around Luke – double-taking. It was because they were noticing him, and then looking again, just to make sure that he wasn't someone famous (they were doing it to the bar-tender, too, wondering if Playboy was pulling some kind of unsubtle publicity stunt.) They didn't know whether to hit him for distracting the women, or ask him for an autograph, just in case. Without knowing it, both parties had already appeared in the Photos-file of multiple peoples' phones.

Luke scouted the air for the densest patch of it, a flimsy atom-bomb of smoke, all on its own, which signalled Morgan's presence. Finding it, he slid through the people at the bar, made slick with perspiration, and got as close as he could. A man had approached her, in front of him – doing what was either an imitation of John Wayne's walk, or an unfortunate side-effect of piles. He was asked if he could sit on it, and Morgan offered to let him go one better.  
'Why don't I just take the seat off and you can spin on it?'  
John Wayne took her point, and Luke collapsed into his place just as she was about to dump his Converse (knotted together by the laces) there.

'Morgy!' He cried hoarsely, flinging an arm her shoulder. 'My favourite sister!!'  
Stunned, if not surprised, Morgan frowned, and eyed him at close quarters. He was staring artlessly into her face as she did so, his eyes wide and sparkling, smiling and hypnotised by the glow at the end of her cigarette.  
'Luke-'  
'Morgy! Have you felt my coat? Feel it! It's all sequinny!'  
He was fidgeting all over the place (which, to be fair, was more or less typical), trying to kneel on his high stool, rubbing his sleeve up and down his face, then across his chest, as if it was made of the softest down, and then brushing the feather-boa cuffs in her face.  
'Ooooh, this bar. It's all... sort of... _shiny_!! What is that?'  
'Hepatitis? Look, will you- Lu- _stop moving_, you're going to fall you tit!'  
'Haaar! Pfff!' He was biting his lip. '_You said tit!_'

Morgan caught him by the chin, and forced him to face her fully.

'...Are you on _pills_?' She shot, accusingly.  
'What?!'  
'Your pupils are massive.'  
'What?! No! That's an absolute bowl of-'  
'_Luke_...'  
'Well, I did- drank- drunk something- someone's... something. Oh, wow, Morgy! Morgy! Morgy!'  
'_WHAT?_'  
'Your hair's so-! Wooow... Can you hear that buzzin' noise?'

Morgan abruptly let his face go (at which point he almost got a mouth-full of that marvellous shiny new invention: wood) although she was unable to divest herself of the jovial arm flung around her. She sat up stiffly at the bar, eyes blank with numb, exhausted total-lack of surprise.

'Oh, how marvellous.' She muttered to herself, all in one expressionless monotone. 'Ecstasy. Fcking _excellent._'

At that moment, Luke noticed the Playboy Exhibition on the top of that shiny bar.  
'_Cool!_' He burst, eying (what little there was of) her shimmering slinky top. 'It's like _Robot spunk!_'  
Morgan had to stop drinking at that, struggling with amusement but casting an unimpressed eye at the source of hot breath and glamour and glitter to her right.  
'What?' She asked scornfully. 'Lu, when have you even _seen _Robot spu- uh, actually, y'know what? Don't tell me. I don't want to know.'  
'Good!' Luke muttered darkly. 'Cuz we had an agreement: What happens in Amsterdam, _stays _in Amsterdam.'

* * *

Cal didn't want to take her eyes off the crowd surfer dude who was currently coming their way. All blonde mane of hair, bare chest and feet... and was that a guitar strap cutting across his chest? So he was a Rocker, eh? Well then, this was going to be one hell of a night...

The evil smile was just starting to spread across her face again when Morgan shooed the guy next to her out of his stool, the crowd surfer draping himself all over it in his place. She briefly entertained a moment of disappointment when he proceeded to drape himself all over _Morgan _too. Apparently the tasty one was taken. Didn't mean she couldn't look though, did it?

Hopping down from the bar in a swift graceful move that brought cheers from every male in sight, she started to fill drink orders. Reaching over Maria's shoulder to grab a couple of shot glasses she took the opportunity to voice just what she was thinking.  
"Well _he's_ a yummy one, isn't he?" Maria's answer coming in the form of a mischeivous smile of her own as she glanced from the blond hottie to Morgan and back.  
"What's with your friend Cal? The way she's looking at our boy there you'd think he'd stolen her car or something. I don't know, but if he were hanging all over _me_ like that I'd at least crack a smile." Maria was very subtly issuing Cal a challenge.

Unfortunately Dean was sitting just close enough to have caught this exchange, and was more than a little put off by the sudden lack of attention.  
"What, you mean the shoeless rocker boy wonder over there under all that glitter?" Was his caustic response.  
"_Yeah_." She sighed happily. "What can I say? The dude ranks high on the hotness-meter and besides, it's been awhile since I've had a hot rocker. Think I might change that tonight."  
She paused just long enough to fully appreciate the way Dean's eyes bulged in surprise as he began to cough and choke on his beer. Gotta love the shock value of a comment like that, eh? The guy _never_ failed to disappoint.

* * *

Someone else who never failed to disappoint was just sashaying his way over to the bar, head bobbing below that magnificent afro – Jazz reached Luke's stool (forcefully shunting a skeezy rocker out of the way with his hip) and enveloped that gorgeous svelte body in his arms.

'Lu, babe,' he purred, 'you havin' fun?'  
Luke, hugging the arms now planted on his torso, darted a glance over his shoulder to (unnecessarily) check who it was groping him (this time).  
'Oh, hey Jazz,' he replied, smiling slowly and easily in a way that made three girls sigh wistfully, at exactly the same time. 'Yeah! And you?'

'_Mmm-hmm_,' Jazz rumbled warmly in his throat, still spooning. 'Can't you feel it?'  
Luke laughed, and looked in reaction at his sister, gormlessly grinning that unique expression of the stoner – one that says 'dude, isn't everything _brilliant_?!' Jazz gave Luke a diva peck on the cheek, with his plum plump lips – but then he caught the carefully-controlled warning in Morgan's stonily silent profile, and moved his roving hands to the less-controversial territory of Luke's shoulders.

'Lu, honey, what you wearing-' he started to ask as Luke (now freed) span around on his stool, his Converse grasped loosely on his lap.  
'Aghhhh!' Jazz crowed in surprise, with that husky break, in his voice, of a happy, long-time smoker – he was taking in the new bareness which was Luke, between the two halves of the coat, oiled and glowing with glitter and sweat. He also spotted the black guitar-strap slashing across the midriff, as if Luke had an invisible quiver slung on his back. Jazz hooked a long-nailed finger into it and ran it up and down, feeling the threadbare velvet.  
'D'you put my guitar on the stage?' Luke asked him secretively, jigging his bare feet (which were perched on the cross-bar) up and down and tucking a chunk of his blond hair behind his ear.  
'Yup.'  
'Thanks Jazz, you're a star-' Luke had his hands on Jazz's arms, gratefully. 'Are you alright? Have you got a drink? Do you want a drink? Let me get you a drink-!'  
'Forget that, man I wanna _daynce_,' Jazz exaggerated his whispery voice and accent, screwing up his face just to emphasize the point.  
Luke's full lips, perfectly fitted to each other, twitched as a crooked, impish little smile swelled on them, like juice from fruit.  
'...If you think you can keep up...?' He offered.

'Ha-_haa_!' Jazz threw his head back, chicklets flashing in delight. 'You go first, Lu, I gotta _see _this.'

Luke slid off his stool, pausing on one foot.  
'I'm in a really weird mood,' he confided. 'I want to _feel _everything!'

The expression frozen on Jazz's face was a picture.  
'**Girls!?**' He yelled, in a strangled voice – and, right on cue, his gaggle of glitzy cross-dressers detached itself from the crowd and swarmed around Luke (who proceeded to teach them all how to moonwalk).

Meanwhile: Jazz, his smile and laugh fading fakely as he turned from the scene, legs crossed, span around on Luke's vacated stool, smacked his hands down flat on the bar, and _heaved _out that most important of questions:

'_Tell _me he swings both ways...'

The answer fell, of course, to Morgan – who cleared her throat, over the top of her bottle of Jameson, and reflected upon it. The female listeners also craned their necks to hear – because that frisson of bisexuality? If it existed? Would just put the ovary-bustin', knuckle-bitin' _cherry _on top of the man-cake which was: (possibly-famous) Crowd Surfer Boy.

'Put it this way,' Morgan said eventually. 'He says _shag-carpeting _was **named **after him.'

* * *

Maria and Cal had their hands full, what with every last body in the place swarming to the bar for a free drink 'on Cal'- or rather, on _Dean_.

Winchester there was still standing, fist in mouth with his eyes glued to what was barely covering her body North of the border. It was fun to sneak a peek at him now and then, in all his stunned glory, as she rushed to fill the orders. He went from ogling her, to just watching. Poor boy was going to need a drool cloth soon.

She and Maria had perfected the art of drink pouring and serving in a subtly near-pornographic manner. They would reach across and climb over each other in such aerobic ways that the male eye couldn't help but be drawn in. Throw in Cal's fondness for risqué attire and presto! The tips just came rolling- right along with the phone numbers and pick up lines. All of which were welcome.

The combination of hot chicks in little clothing and fancy aerobics might be the one thing that could keep Dean quiet. Sam was patting his shoulder, trying to get his attention- or maybe just shake him out of it. Obviously it wasn't working. Cal could feel a set of hazel eyes boring holes into the rear of her skirt as she bent down to get more ice.

"Hey Winchester, I've got a newsflash for ya: you're not Superman. Starin' at it isn't gonna make it disappear." She called out as she poured out another half-dozen shots of Screaming Orgasms.

"Can't blame a guy for trying." He muttered just loud enough for her to hear.

Reaching over she placed one of the shots within reaching distance of the strikingly tall black woman who had just smacked both hands down on the bar. Poor girl looked like she could use a good solid drink- wait… better make that poor _guy_. An Adam's apple, no matter how well concealed, is a dead giveaway.

'_Tell_ me he swings both ways...'

And there was no question who 'he' was as he (she?) watched Crowd Surfer Boy trying to teach a few more glitzily clad gals how to moonwalk… (the sight of which left Cal's mouth watering because, seriously? The man could _move_!)

'Put it this way,' Morgan's familiar voice cut in to answer. 'He says _shag-carpeting _was **named **after him.'

"You're kidding me, right?" Cal asked, in awe. As if the guy could possibly get any hotter? Morgan's brief head shake was all the answer she needed. First question that popped to mind was _how_ exactly he and Morgan happened to be attached, but just as her lips parted to ask, another drink order was called across the bar.

"Hey, barkeep!" Cal rolled her eyes. Of course, it _would _be Winchester. Probably wanting to put his two cents in as to his competition's sexual preference. "I'll have me one of those Screaming Orgasms you just poured." Grinning as he caught her glare, disgustingly proud of himself for pulling it together and getting her full, undivided attention. "You know what? Better make that more'n'one." Eyes sparkling with mirth at his own unspoken joke.

"Multiples, eh?" Cal asked, going straight for the punch-line of his little joke. A flirtatious little half-smile sent his way. "Brave man, Winchester."

"No room for cowards in my line of work, Cal. But you know that already. So, I've got a question for ya. When you said the drinks were _on you_..." He let the rest of the question ask itself, the challenge sparkling clearly in his eyes as he let them drift leisurely over her barely-concealed curves… and just like that Crowd Surfer Boy slipped from her mind.

Damn the man for being so distracting.

* * *

Meeting was adjourned.

Elsewhere, Luke (once again tucking that many-tiered mane of fair hair behind his ear) was showing the drag-sters how to do a particular swinging, foot-crossing step.

This lead to the spectacle of a group of outrageously gotten-up men, doing a passable imitation of _Riverdance_, or _Cabaret Meets Stomp!_ All jigging around outlandishly on the spot, beside the pounding rock crowd, which couldn't have looked more butch by comparison. It was a hell of an ice-breaker, anyway – and everyone kept stopping, breathless with laughter and almost too weak to stand (they even had the odd grunged-out rocker joining in, just to be ironic). Luke had temporarily lost the rainbow coat (again) but it was okay. The energetic heat which he and the Dragsters had brought with them, on their entrance, had filled the whole place with a deliciously cloaking warmth, steaming up on all the glass and glasses . So it was warm enough for the people inside to get just that _little _bit more naked.

The song the house-band was playing climbed to a frenzied guitar-scramming climax, Luke and his group obliterated the last beat with a crowd-wide scissor-kick in the air, and- _BOOM._ Everyone crashed to the floor, platform heels and all clinging to each-other for support, and a gale of laughter rolled over the stage as the dancers and watchers could finally be heard. A round of applause and whooping-cheering went up, for the band, Luke clapping his hands over his head.

'_Dance with me!?_' A crazy girl (wait, it was that arse-girl) shrieked in his face.  
'Next one, love, next one!' Luke assured her over the noise, trying to extricate himself from her desperate grip without seeming to.  
'_Where are you going?!_'  
'The toilet!'  
'_Can I come?!_'  
'No, but i'll be thinkin' of you!'  
'_Oh my God, ahahahaha!!_'

That seemed to do the trick.

Luke darted away from her, out of the press, back through the Dragsters, bare feet crackling on the slightly-sticky floor, and tried to squeeze past the booths to get to the gents. He was accosted by another group, who wanted to know his name (in case he was some rock-dinosaur's prodigal son), and as he span, backing away from them to answer their questions, he caught sight of a half-empty booth, one side hidden from the view of the bar. In particular, he noticed the man who was just levering his gargantuan frame out of his seat, there.

'_Sam?_'

His voice carried, and the lanky guy started.

'Sam! Fck me, it _is _you!'

Luke bumbled over, shaming Sam's reserved nod of recognition by gathering the big guy into a back-slapping bear-hug which made him huff in surprise – and earned Sam's tightly-smiling face some strange looks over Luke's shoulder, from the guys around (looks of the "oh, right, you bat for _that _team" persuasion). They separated, (one half of the hug with great relief) and looked at each other – at which point Sam became aware of a certain dampness, around the pocket area.

'Oh, _bugger_, sorry mate!' Luke said instantly, mortified. 'I didn't know you had a drink-!'  
'That's okay-'  
'Hang on, I think I've got a hanky-'  
'No, Luke, really-'  
'Here it is!' (it was a serviette with phone-numbers on it). 'I reckon you can stop it staining if you just wipe it right-'  
They were attracting some attention.  
'Luke, this isn't necessary-'  
'It's alright, look, if you just pat it down-'  
'_**WO**__AH!_'

There was an awkward silence.

Luke stepped back.  
He opened his mouth.  
He closed his mouth.

'...Sorry.'

'Hey-!' Sam laughed, coughed, and tried deepened his voice, dimples flashing. 'S'alright.'  
'So...' Luke began, as Sam scratched his head. 'Was that a, er...?'  
'_Flashlight?_'  
'Right! Right... obviously...' He changed to a conversational tone of voice. 'It's.., erm... amazing how _small _they can _make _them these days...'  
Sam frowned, opened his mouth- '_Lu, babe!_' (Evidently, Jazz's Hi_lar_ious-Mishap-Alarm had gone off, or else his Jealousy-Radar, because he appeared behind Luke like an apparition, and weighed Sam up in his gaze) 'Who's the beefcake?'  
Luke, his just-shy-of-6-foot now dwarfed by the 6-3 and 6-5 towering either side of him, laughed.  
'Jazz, this is Sam. Sam, Jazz – he's a friend of me and Morgan's. Sh1t, _Morgan! _Is Dean with you? I've got to tell her you're here! OI!'  
He started waving at the bar.  
'Luke-'  
'OI! MORGY!  
'Don't-'  
'Morg! _Look who it is!_'

But it was too late...

Morgan became aware that her idiot shadow was trying to get her attention, she knocked back the last of the Jameson, black hair whipping back from her crown like a demoness, and dropped her cigarette butt inside the bottle. She scowled quizzically at him, wondering what he was after, and then heard the words "look who it is". Her eyes swooped on, to the two people standing beside him: Jazz, their latest utterly-random acquaintance, yes, and next to him-

Oh.

Curious, and ignoring the Converse shoes she was discarding on the seat behind her, Morgan slid slowly off her stool and wove her way through the crowd to get there – the inclination of her dark head increasing as she got closer, and closer, and looked up into the familiar Byronic face.

'Hi Sam.' She said, loudly enough to be heard (and totally failing to soak and/or accidentally hand-job him). 'How are you?'

'Heya Morgan' Sam said, warmly but somehow sadly, and gathered her into a brief unexpected hug – exposing her to a surprising moment of warmth and security, in the endearing sincerity of the gesture (and Luke had a glowing blaze of the eyes to spare him, watching it happen).

'I'm good.' Sam confessed, after breaking away and tucking his hands away in his pockets, a little abashed at himself, now. 'You?'

Morgan raised an eyebrow that took in all the possible implications that question could hold for a person who had to live out their life alongside Luke's.

'Can't complain,' she shrugged, tilting her head wryly. 'What brings you to the city, Sam?'  
'We're here on a job-' a grimace of annoyance flickered across Sam's face as he realized what he'd said.  
Despite the noise-level, Morgan had not missed it – her dark eyes lasered into Sam's pitying hazel gaze, burning out.  
'We?'  
'Yeah... Dean's- I think he went to the bathroom.'

Which, coming from Sam, was as about a transparent a lie as "oh yeah, Dean just left me alone to poke these forks into some electrical sockets".

Morgan intuitively followed the direction in which his eyes weren't going – and easily spotted, now she was looking for him, a familiar expanse of shining brown leather, worn to the texture of teak. Ah. And, here's the thing, what you really couldn't ignore about that brown leather jacket, was the glittering slip of silver next to it, on the other side of the bar counter. It seemed Dean was taking in some of the sights, the scenery, soaking up the atmosphere, meeting the locals. All the holiday stuff. Which at least explained the look of sympathy from Sam – but why he thought her feelings warranted it, she had no clue. It was none of her business what or who Dean got up into.

'Keeping busy then,' she noted over her shoulder, being only marginally sarcastic.

* * *

Okay, so bartending was fun and all but really? She'd just spent most of the day down in the sewers and the night wasn't getting any younger. There were drag queens dancing with grunged out rockers and crowd surfers out on the floor and she'd noticed that folk were slowly starting to shed their warmer layers of clothing. Cal was ready to get out there and join 'em. It was high time she got on with the celebrating of a job well done.

"We all caught up Maria? 'Cause I'm itching to get out there and get in on the action."

Her friend smiled and nodded. "Go on and knock 'em dead like you always do, hun."

Cal reached over the bar and grabbed two of the four shots she'd placed in front of Dean. A quick smile before she downed the first one, making sure he was watching as her throat worked to swallow it down. It burned pleasantly in her belly and by the time the second joined it she felt that pleasant buzz setting in. The one that said she wasn't drunk, yet, but she had a good head start on it.

Dean was smiling that smile of his… the one that told her he was hunting for some action and had found his prey. She watched him down his own shots, throwing his head back almost carelessly as he swallowed, locking eyes with her when he was done in a way that made her feel delightfully lightheaded. A mental tally of hotness began to add itself up in her head next to the 'list of things that annoy her about Dean'. Top of the tally at this particular moment being those bedroom eyes of his…

Those eyes that were tempting her to step up on that shelf under the bar, lean right over, grab a fistful of t-shirt and pull the man in to show him just what she had to offer…

Of course, _that _would be making things too easy for him. Couldn't have that, now could we?

'OI! MORGY!

Crowd Surfer Boy was trying to get Morgan's attention. Loud and excited his voice carried over the din of the bar so that it attracted everyone's attention, putting Morgan on the spot. There was an exaggerated eye roll before he called out again.

'Morg! _Look who it is!_' Causing everyone in the bar (including Cal) to turn and look out of simple curiosity.

There stood the hot-as-ever golden Crowd Surfer with his gorgeous drag-queen friend and… _Sam._ No way. There was just no way they could possibly know each other… was there?

"Hey Dean, you know that guy over there with Sam?"

"Huh?" He barely glanced toward the booth where his brother was standing, preferring to keep his attention focused on some of Cal's finer assets. "Uh, yeah. I think so. Name's Duke…or Lucy or something. So, where were we again? Oh yeah, you were about to expand on this 'drinks on you' offer you made earlier…"

Clearly Dean was too distracted to realize who Luke was and what his sudden appearance meant.

Curious now and excited to have found an excuse to start conversation with the guy, Cal lost no time. Climbing right over the bar she made a bee-line for Sam intent on introducing herself to this incredibly gorgeous, crowd surfing, rocker guy…

There was potential Dean torture in this meeting, and that was _always _entertaining.

"Sam, _there_ you are. I was beginning to wonder if you'd made it out, what with Captain Obnoxious here pestering us all by his lonesome. Glad you're here!"

To her credit there was no doubt she was being sincere. She really _was_ glad he'd come. It's just that from the moment she joined the foursome her eyes never left Luke. They started by making eye contact with an interested arch of brow and continued their journey as she spoke. Taking in the layered locks of golden mane which he made a habit of tucking behind his ears, drifting down over the sculpted, lean muscle cascading down his torso and all the way down, down, _down._ There was a snort of amusement somewhere to the side which she recognized as coming from Morgan but it didn't bother her in the least.

She felt, rather than heard Dean come up behind her. There was a strangled grunt of surprise as he recognized first one, then both Enfields. Dean was pretty good with the quick recovery though. He nodded a cool "Hey Luke." And a nervous "Hullo Morgan." Before stepping up beside Cal for the introductions, hoping to hell this wasn't those conversations that ended with flying fists and black eyes.

"Uh, Cal, this is Morgan" he hesitated, clearing his throat before moving things along. "she's a, uh, a friend... who is a girl- _woman_, a-ll woman. Morg, this is- uh, Cal, she's-"

"We've met-" Morgan enlightened him, unimpressed.

Dean did his best imitation of a deflating balloon, obviously thinking he was off the hook on this one. "Thank _God!_" Words breathed on a heartfelt sigh.  
Morgan wasn't about to make it that easy on him though "-but carry on..."  
Eyes wide and suddenly feeling like a cornered animal, Dean had no choice but to continue with the explanation he _didn't_ have.

"Uh, _Cal_" Silence as he ran through the possible scenarios "This is Cal, my... er... nothing, she's nothing. I mean, a lot! She means a lot [but not really well, in a way, I guess. It's strictly platonic! We're just- aw _man_..." Closing his eyes he ran a hand wearily over his face. There was no doubt about it, he'd _really_ stepped in it this time.

The look that passed between Cal and Morgan expressed quite clearly how totally unimpressed they were with him. Sam was having a really hard time, sandwiched as he was between Luke and Jazz, who had caught on quickly to what was going on and were snickering and giggling respectively. Cracking up wasn't an option but it was damn hard not to.

Cal got tired of watching Dean trying to talk his way in and out of his own mess real fast. "Oh just stop it already Dean, before you give yourself an aneurism. You're not fooling anyone here, we're not idiots." Turning to Morgan with a great big genuine smile, she was glad to finally have a moment to actually speak with her.

* * *

Morgan listened in stolid near-silence, her arms folded, with an increasingly-amazed grimace marking her face – it was like being forced to watch a car-crash happen in slow motion. Once Dean had seemed to stop the karmic equivalent of kicking himself repeatedly in the balls, she came back to life, uncrossed her arms and jerked a thumb at her brother.

'Cal, this is-'  
'_Luke_,' he cut in, immediately, leaning forwards eagerly and extending his hand with that same twitching impish smile he'd shown Jazz. With the movement, you could almost imagine that he'd wafted forwards a palpable air of charisma, imagine it roiling like storm-clouds against Cal and then bursting – dissipating over the group in a glitter of sexual tension, like stardust. 'The _better _half.'

Cal took the offered hand in one of her own.  
'Delighted to finally meet you, Luke... and _all_ your finer assets.' She purred, gracing him with a flirtatious smile before turning back to Morgan.

Morgan's eyes flickered, unsurprised, at her brother, and her hand moved on:  
'-This is Jazz.'  
Jazz had already spared Cal a conspiratorial wink, but was now eying Dean in the style of a tiger smiling at a shivering gazelle – Dean, usually so cocky, suddenly seemed unsure of what to do with his limbs.  
Jazz murmured, not troubling to keep his voice low. '_Daymn _you people keep good comp'ny...'  
But was there a little cattiness in it, veering Cal's way? Apparently, he was already staking out Luke as his territory.

Meanwhile, Morgan was drawing eyes back – she had leaned over between Sam and Luke, sticking her arm out to retrieve what turned out to be a pair of shots from a passing tray. She necked them, one after the other – lip curling in a post-burn sneer that would've turned the braces of a teenage boy to molten metal – and threw the empties over her shoulder. She stripped off her long woolen sleeves, which were making her too hot, and used them to bundle up Betty (her gun), retrieved from a deep pocket in her combats – and thrust the whole into Luke's stomach.

'Luke, hold my crap. _I want to dance_,' she growled, almost as an afterthought.

Dean's ears proverbially picked up. Thinking he was off the hook, he twisted at the shoulder and waved a thumb at the crowd, about to offer-  
_But no cigar. _  
Morgan crooked a finger, instead, at Cal, and nodded.

'Come on, Cal.'

So the four men were forced to watch, nonplussed, as the two women disappeared into the revelers, Dean turning slowly on the spot, amazed, to follow their movement over his shoulder.

_Huh..._

'"A, uh, girl-woman"?' Sam queried under his breath as Dean came to stand beside him.  
Dean thought on it a second, his face carefully blank, and came back with the unbelievably witty drawl:

'...Shut-up...'


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5: **__She's a Real Wild One, and She Loves to Rock'n Roll_

She was being pulled onto the dance floor- by a _chic _no less- and Cal was not normally a dancer. There was something in the air tonight, though, that appealed to her 'just roll with it' way of doing things. Besides, it'd give her a chance to ask Morgan about this new boy toy of hers… and maybe trade some juicy tidbits on a certain Winchester.

The crowd was a touchy-feely one today. She could feel fingertips grazing bare skin as she followed Morgan towards the stage. Arms in the air, bass pumping up through the floor and vibrating right through their bodies… _Yeah,_ Cal thought, _dancing was an excellent idea._

The lead singer's voice was deep and gravelly, the tempo in that awesome place between fast and slow that made the dancing energetic and sexy as hell...

What was lost on the people, on everyone but Luke, was the novelty of Morgan getting up to dance – she just _didn't. Ever. _So it came as a shock to see two toned bronze arms stretched into the air, and the body below it, wild black hair moistened with the heat and clinging to the skin, rippling with each muscle. And there was the knock-out Robot-Spunk girl – Cal, right next to her! (which was giving him a whole _jumble _of delicious thoughts, wicked as dark chocolate). Sometimes holding hands, facing towards Morgan, or away, the retro upward kick in the tips of Cal's hair bobbed with every movement.

The music, just this song, had that fantastic kind of rambling collaborative rhythm which speaks of salsa and raunchy parties, making the hips roll and weave in fun, and every woman start to smile. Even _Morgy! _Despite herself, he could see a sliver of white through the ink-black hair – Ha! He was going to have to get Big Sister stoned again!

...Sounded like the set was coming to a close, but that didn't stop the swarm of random guys from surrounding them, hoping to get lucky enough to dance with one (or both) of the bombshells that had decided to join in on the fun.

Always one for a show Cal jumped on the opportunity, leaning in close to Morgan to ask about Luke.  
"So you and Luke, eh? Easy on the eyes that one. So, how long've you two been _hunting _together?" It was a subtle kind of 'wink-wink, nudge-nudge' question designed to decipher just how attached Morgan was to Luke. Normally Cal wouldn't hesitate to play the game with another girl's claim, but Morg was a friend and that meant the rules were a little different than usual.

"Not long – but he's aged me horribly." It was an airy answer with heavy undertones.  
Well now, she'd have to file that little bit of innuendo safely away for future reference. If she'd understood Morgan properly, apparently _Luke _had and impressive amount of _endurance_. Good to know.

The revelation was followed by an awkward bit of deafening silence. The next band on O'Leary's 'Amateur Band Night' docket took the stage and made a few quick adjustments to the technical equipment… and then it was business as usual as they opened another set.

Now, y'see, _normally _when a band takes to the stage you expect to hear some actual _music_ happening shortly thereafter… right? Yeah, not this time. The sounds that came from those poor guitars were _nothing close _to resembling a good opening riff. These guys were so awful Cal couldn't even recognize what song they were butchering. She had a nearly irresistible urge to cover her sore ears.

Morgan scowled at the fumbling bass-player, looking for all the world as if she were angry at him for assaulting the helpless instrument like that.

Elsewhere, Dean took the opportunity, as he and a good proportion of the rest of the men in the bar were watching the two women, to lean sideways, towards the others, and loudly point out:

'Okay... So... that's gotta be the hottest thing you've ever seen, right?'

There was a rumble of agreement from the beer-toting strangers around them, even Sam raised his eyebrows in concession. One member of their little unit was notably silent.

Noticing this, Dean turned his head and sought out Luke.

He had folded his arms, across his bare chest, but he was holding up one of his hands to his smiling mouth, thumb running back and fore, in reflection, along his full bottom lip. That wasn't what caused a frown to crease Dean's forehead, though – it was the _Look_. He had his head cocked very slightly to the side, leonine blond waves of hair framing his face, and he was staring at Cal – slowly, speculatively – with eyes which sparkled and fizzed like fireworks behind the loose strands of hair. Eating her up, in fact. It was the look every little girl's daddy _dreads_.

'Luke...' Dean said, pointedly.  
A little pop as Luke removed his thumb from his mouth-  
'Hmm?' He surfaced from the reverie.  
'Something wrong?' Dean asked, a little aggressively (and Sam gave his big brother a surprised glance).  
'What? Oh no... I was just wondering... That Cal girl...?'  
'What about her?'  
Luke smiled to himself.  
'_...I hope her apartment's sound-proof._'

And Luke stalked off like a lion to the crowd...

...Morgan stopped, dead, in her movement, as the bass player cocked-up yet another simple riff – she couldn't have looked more scathing of him if he'd just dropped his kegs and done a dump on the amp.

'Jesus wept,' she said loudly. 'I could play that with my cock!'  
Cal, still tripping the light fantastic, did a laughing double take. 'You've got a cock?!'  
'Well, one of us has to... I mean, fair-play, he plays well enough, but he _sounds _like a cat being thrown against a wall. And, aye, the drummer's alright, but- _oh, no, put it away, you ass-hat!!_'

Too late, a particularly painful screech of guitar feedback made both women (and the rest of the crowd, who were turning sour) wince away from the stage for a moment. The gust from the woofers almost put out the cigarette Morgan was lighting (as if Fate needed any more reasons to put them in her bad books). When she and Cal re-assumed their positions, in the front row, something had changed. They had both started to eye the stage in a style not dissimilar to Luke's, sizing up the unsuspecting Cal.

'Morg...' Cal began slowly, as a thought crept up on her and bit. 'I'm feelin' the need to climb a table, or a bar or somethin'...' She had an _idea_ and it had something to do with climbing up onto that stage and kicking that useless tit of a bass player off-stage. The thought of playing the rockstar for a song or two was an appealing one. God only knew she was dressed for the part. Worst case scenario, she and Morgan would probably get to throw a punch or two if the band refused to give up trying and go home. Either way, there was just no way she was going to let a band _this bad _play a set in _her bar. _

Morgan spared her a mildly suspicious look, the one she used when surprised by someone else's hand in cards. She was thinking, '_how did _you _know I was just thinking that?_'  
'Go on...' She said, carefully, taking a drag.

'I'm just saying,' Cal regarded her nails, casually. 'You want to go up there, and show these poor boys how it's done? I've got your back.' She was trying for nonchalant but the gleam in her eye gave away how excited she was to get up there and do some damage.

Alright, now it was getting uncanny. Morgan changed the tone of her sideways stare – now it was the one a battle-hardened solider wears when the rookie pipes up with "_let me run screaming out there with a machine-gun blazing and throw the grenade into the bunker, sarge!! I can do it, sarge, I know I can!_" She would regret it if the crowd turned against Cal, and would then regret having to make them see the error of their ways.

However, on the other hand:  
'Fck it,' Morgan shrugged, British accent twanging. 'Why not?'

She made up her mind, and extended a clenched fist – and, reading her mind, Cal reached out her left. The two huntresses ('cause that's what they were, don't you forget it) bumped knuckles. Once, twice, three times – and they were ready to roll. (Later on, and upon reflection, the band would admit, that they never really knew what hit them...)

One minute the guy standing turtle was bent over his Firebyrd, trying to tune, and the next, the two hottest women he had ever seen in his _life _appeared before him, seeming to power up out of the crowd like a rising tsunami. A raucous cheer went up in their wake (clearly there were admirers of the cyber-fluid style of fashion in) and the two basically staged a coup of the whole damn area.

'Right! You!' Morgan said, pointing at Bass-player man, who was wearing a ridiculously pretentious top-hat. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. '_Hop it_.'

'Dude!' Ass-hat (as she was coming fondly to think of him) wasn't happy. 'This is our slot-'  
'Was, pal, _was_.'  
'Bitch, you can't just kick us off-stage-'  
Oh-ho dear, that was an unfortunate turn of phrase? As one, Morgan and Cal looked at each other; as one, planted a foot on both his shoulders (one boot, one heel), as one, quite literally kicked him off-stage.

Ass-hat flew backwards, mercifully saved by the soft landing of a raft of waving hands, which surfed him to the back. Cal leaned over the edge of the stage to better soak in the cheering that came rolling up from the crowd. "Aw, look at that! Stage is _ours now, _dude!" She crowed after him triumphantly as he floated helplessly around the room, at the mercy of the crowd.

Morgan took up his bass, which was a dark electric blue, and, as he sailed comically past (his yell growing louder as he got closer) stooped to retrieve something: it was the top-hat. There was a band around the crown – handy for tucking a fag into. Hmm. Maybe not a _complete _loss, then. Morgan held the hat up to see how the many bulbously-glowing lights, twinkling from the walls and ceiling, shone through it – all of them fattened and blurred to a film-Noir softness by the alcohol and drugs in her system. She span it in her fingers, by the brim, and then, on a whim, she let it land on her black head of hair, and tapped it firmly on with the flat of her cigarette-toting hand.

Only then did she turn to Cal.

'So,' said Morgan, utterly at ease. 'What d'you want to do? You play guitar, Cal?' (there was a rather nervous-looking lead guitarist still stranded on stage, with them).  
'Nope.' Cal replied. 'But I can sing... sort of.' Oh Cal could sing alright, and she certainly did it often enough. Early mornings in the shower, at the wheel of her car on the road and the occasional drunken karaoke adventure… thing is it wasn't exactly among her finer talents.

A pencil thin, dark eyebrow arched, knowingly, in a way that suggested Cal's definition of "sort of" was the kind of definition that could get you a _Reputation._

Morgan looked out from beneath the brim of her top hat, suddenly a sinewy female form of Slash, dark eyes smouldering demonically as if some Voodoo figure of Mardi Gras Hell were burning away under the beautiful mask. She smiled an extraordinarily wide grin – _crocodile _wide – blinding white, and so rarely seen that Luke (who had halted in the audience, stunned) spontaneously laughed out loud.

'Cal.' Morgan said, simply. 'I've got an idea.'

She leaned over and whispered something which made Cal's eyes light up, made her laugh in delight, and completely overrode the dubious looks they were receiving from members of the crowd – angry chick rock? Oh no. Oh _hell yes!_ Morgan took a pace back and leaned over the set to the drummer – who, it seemed was on top form, on account of being a raving junkie on a trip. She told him what to play, made sure turtle-guy knew as well, and returned to the front of the stage just as Cal was adjusting the mic (too high) to a better level. They kept eye-contact, blood pumping, nerves jangling, storm-clouds of butterflies roaring into life inside, and a split-second second later the beat of the drums exploded in a sound-wave from behind them.

Playfully eyeing the undulating wave of bodies, Cal picked out familiar faces. Luke, moving through the throng to get closer to the stage. Sam and Dean trying to keep a low profile, hugging the edge of the crowd. Maria had taken a page out of the book of Cal and had hopped up onto the bar to better get her rock on.

Adrenaline kicked in, pumping strong and thick in her veins, she let a predatory feline smile spread across her lips. Hiking up the hem of her skirt a little more she fell into the role and set her body swaying to the beat the drummer was setting for them. Oh _Yeah! _They were _Rockstars _baby

'O-h you gotta be _kiddin' _me.' Dean muttered, as, up on stage, a very familiar bass-line started to thump n' throb its way through the speakers, pulsing out of Morgan's guitar and screaming along the floor like a wild cat, the impression like that of everyone in the room collectively receiving a flying-kick to the gut. As Cal, creamy bare skin, radiant and exposed in the light and the heat-wave, undulated up to the mic., weaving to the beat before she had to do her part.

Sam had stopped along-side him, dimples popping out as he fought down a spontaneous, amazed laugh (Luke had disappeared a little way ahead of them, bobbing into the throng). The crowd were bouncing with it, now, as if thrown up by the earthquake-of-bass in the floor – going mad and clapping to the beat over their heads, as lead by Cal:

'_I saw him dancing there by the record machine, I knew he must have been about seventeen. The beat was going strong, playing my favorite song. I could tell, it wouldn't be long, till he was with me, yeah, with me, and I could tell, it wouldn't be long, till he was with me: Yeah, with me' _The crowd shouted along, Cal was cupping a hand questioningly to her ear_**Singin?**_'

'_**I Love Rock And Roll!**_' The roar went up, the crowd reaching adoringly for Cal's extended hands, horns shooting in support and screaming approval. Sam couldn't believe it, the look on Dean's face, coupled with the people all around them, singing, was just too much. He cracked up, dimples carving deeper and deeper until his jaw ached, dissolving into a fit of giggles which racked him until he had to press his arms to his stomach, going weak. Dean, meanwhile, was rummaging frantically through his pockets as if he'd just heard a bomb ticking in one of them.

'Dude, what's wrong?' Sam finally had enough breath to ask.  
'My phone! I can't find my friggin' _phone!_' Dean sounded close to hauling off and shooting something.  
'Why?' Sam asked, being a little atypically slow.  
'Sam-?!' There were no words – Dean mutely waved an arm at the crowd, who were, to a man, waving cell-phones in the air. Either using them to take pictures, or just to stand in for lighters.

* * *

Luke joined the scrum of people at the back, who were each taking it in turns to climb on top of the crowd (in an _Irish _pub) and had himself bounced ceiling-ward, in a glorious moment of vertigo, flying off the hand-rung someone made of their meshed fingers. He landed on _top _of the people at the back, in a yell of recognition (from earlier) which was cloaked by the general bellow of joy – joy in the music, and joy in the sex. He wobbled past, from that unique vantage point, precarious in the same way as horseback riding – able to look at every-where and –one else in the bar from a whole new perspective, like replaying his own memory. He saw the familiar faces of Jazz, Sam and Dean swimming by, the lights blurring, snatches of conversation drifting in and out of hearing as he passed out of earshot.

Then he was rolling onto his stomach again, the clamminess of rock-crowd hands latching onto his bare skin (and grabbing other places, too) his back cooled by evaporating sweat, as it faced the high ceiling. He swam forwards, got back to the front row, and was let down just in time for the finishing words of _I Love Rock and Roll_. His intention had been to get a closer look at that fey Robot-Spunk girl, but as his bare feet touched down on the floor, he found his eye caught by Big Sis. Pausing, to bask a moment in little brotherly warmth, he watched his sister with a slow, complicated smile – one of her boots perched on the edge of the wedge-shaped woofer, on the floor of the stage – and felt the magic of it falling like space-dust around his ears.

But it was hard for a red-blooded male to keep his own eyes from straying back to that slip of silver, glittering away in the corner of vision. That slip of silver being the handkerchief-sized scrap of fancy fish scale material that Cal was passing off as a top. '_Jesus_.' Luke thought. It _looked _like it was a hand-span wide, and he found himself imagining how much _fun_ he could have finding out if that were true. It was barely held on by four jewel-like strings, on either side, and the girl was bursting out of it all over – cracking knockers. In fact, he realised he (and every other man) was watching her dance, up there, in the fervent hope that she'd pull a Janet Jackson on them. Maybe that's why they were yelling _so _loud.

'_Then again_,' muttered a guilty voice in his head. '_Morgy's got some talent too, I s'pose…_'

But this was no time for thinkin'! Luke noticed his pensive state of mind was being battered into submission from outside by a wall of sound – the crowd were cheering, screaming wildly and leaping up and down. Absent from that fine beer-soaked tapestry was the actual music, though – the girls had finished their set. Robot-spunk-girl seemed to have a need to be more closely among her adoring public, too, shimmying nearer the edge – and before Luke could realise what that meant, she was falling forwards. Time seemed to… _slow_… One second she way above, haloed in an arch-rainbow of stage lights, and the next he was raising his hands to the heavens, like a convert reaching to God, catching her as she came down.

For one hanging second, he held his hands on her bare waist – the metallic edge of her top, swelling under curves, refreshingly cold on his boiling skin, brushing gently against his palms as he knew it would. Her hands were on his naked shoulders, gliding naturally to his shoulder-blades, in sudden, _achingly _exciting proximity.

Then she tripped a little and- _Pow! _It was full metal contact. Both mouths open in shock, hovering agonizingly close enough that both felt the other's breath flickering on their face. Taut shivering muscles bumped against each other and, surprised, twitched pneumatically in their bodies, in _pleasant _surprise. And he was looking into a pair of bottomless jewel-bright eyes, shining like planets in the constellations of tiny freckles in her face. Electricity crackled in the air between them, in the locked burning gazes, invisible beams of magnetism shooting between these two adults, radiant with youth – enough to melt an EMF-meter. And for a moment, the thought that flitted through Luke's brain, thrilled right through his body in fact, was: _it would be so easy… he could just… lean forwards… _

It even defied the laws of physics for a second, their little world – because, even though the crowd was still hollering like a wounded beast on all sides of her, Cal could hear the single breathless word he murmured, inside their bubble.

'_Hey…_'

But then a hand was extending into his line of sight – and, without thinking, Luke reached up and took it. It was Morgan's hand. And he always followed Big Sis. So Luke let his left hand fall, from the silky bow of Cal's back – his thumb grazing regretfully, for a moment, as if in apology – and then he was climbing out of reach.

* * *

Never in her entire _life_ had Cal _ever_ had this much fun, and that was saying _a lot._

This being on stage business was _way _better than any bar brawl or good messy hunt she'd ever been on. All eyes were on her, happy to just watch her move while she sang (passably well, if she did say so herself) and danced with wild abandon.

They weren't making music, they _were_ the music. The drum beat (her heart) hammering strong and solid in her chest. The scream of bass guitar produced by Morgan's skilled hands (the adrenaline-laced blood) racing through her veins. The roaring approval of the crowd begging for more a rush of high that only usually came from a good fight. She didn't have to dance, her body just moved of its own accord and that was perfectly fine with her.

Cal found herself wishing it were possible to stay up there forever.

The heat of the stage lights wafted and wrapped itself around her like a warm wet breeze. She could have been naked and _still_ there would have been beads of sweat pearling on her skin, dampening the tips of her hair and blurring her vision. Cal felt hot, tired and _sore_… all the wonderful feelings that were normally the by-product of an all-night marathon.

A-nd _speaking _of all-nighters… it seemed that Sexy Crowd Surfer Boy Luke had decided to go another round.

'_Said can I take you home where we can be alone'_

And boy, who knew fantasizing and singing at the same time would be so _hard?_

_An we'll be movin' on - __An' singin' that same old song-Yeah with me, singin'_

He moved over the crowd with a swimmers grace, unbothered by the hands that grabbed and stroked all over naked, tan skin that shone slick with sweat under the dimmed spotlights that hung from the ceiling. One more chorus Cal (she pep-talked herself through it) One more chorus and then you can gracefully bow out and hunt yourself another beer...

'_I love rock n' roll - __So put another dime in the jukebox, baby'_

Because that guy is _Morgan's_ claim, a fact she couldn't ignore when he finally came to a stop down in the front row and watched her friend that way. The warmth of his slow smile enough to give Cal the warm fuzzies even if it wasn't directed at her. .

'_I love rock n' roll - __So come an' take your time an' dance with me'_

The drums slowed, Morgan's guitar wailed and then both instruments went silent. Luke momentarily forgotten, Cal and Morgan grinned at each other basking in a moment of sheer accomplishment as the whole pub went wild. Well now, looked like maybe they'd managed to win over the crowd.

How did rockstars do it though? Three hour concerts, entertaining the masses with greatest hits until they screamed themselves hoarse… she'd done the _one song _and it was more than enough for her. Cal wanted a drink, she wanted a seat _and _she wanted to get down into that crowd of admirers so she could hear for herself what they all had thought of the set they'd just finished.

Morgan stopped with a triumphantly vicious down-stroke of her arm, and felt that familiar hum in the fingertips – long since hardened to playing – that you got when you finally paused long enough for the blood fizz. Extricating her hand from the neck, she flexed it experimentally, and found, to her relief, that it was okay – you can't fire a gun with an RSI, after all. She took off the top-hat, momentarily, sweltering under the stage-lights, and drew a long forearm across her head to cleanse the dew of perspiration there. (A mannerism which was _instantly _captured by numerous mobile phones, like luminous blue fireflies in the crowd, and _instantly _replayed in slow-motion, soft-porn style).

Cal looked high as a kite from performing, albeit a little relieved to be done. Morgan knew that Luke (and it looked like Cal too) came up on-stage because of the buzz, the sudden realisation that even hunters have something to fight down butterflies over – it was like being born again. But for Morgan, there was a _reason_. With a good heavy bass in her hands, weighing them down like a Kalashnikov, she could feed the Beast. That industrial gut-rumbling of guitar was the _Wolf_, clawing at her insides, screaming to get out – and being allowed to. Gloriously freed, if only very briefly, and in its weakest form. It was like tap-dancing blindfold across a minefield – but, _Christ_, how great the thrill when you got out alive.

Morgan turned, with that transforming wolfish grin growing like murder on her face, and found it met by Cal's. In fact, she made a point of putting the black top-hat on, again, just so she could sweep it off in distinctly Luke-ish congratulation. _A-nd that's how it's done, ladies and gents. _She wrapped her left hand around the neck again, swallowing down on her parched throat, and found that even the metal fretts were heated to scalding point. Just as she was about to voice the sudden urgent need for more booze, she realised that her performing-partner was on the edge of the stage – about to jump off. And who should be standing below her...?

Reading her mind, Morgan cut a deliberate glance from Cal to the bar and back, nodding her assent as if to say: _Go ahead, I've got this._ .

Well okay then. To the bar it would be!

The echo of chunky rubber heel on cheap wooden stage board rang in her ears, even if she couldn't actually hear it over the roar of the crowd as she approached. The frayed hem of her jean skirt, damp with sweat, tickled sensitive skin as it slid up a little higher than mid-thigh when she sat on the edge of the stage, the better to slide her way down to the floor.

Luke was there, standing right where she was headed, golden mane of hair gone wild and begging to be tucked back behind his ears again. She should have seen it coming when he'd stretched out his arms to help her, but it was still a shock to feel skin on skin contact.

_God_, the palms of those rough hands _burning _their way up the sides of her body, holding firm as she slid through them to the floor. Suddenly unsteady and oddly weak-kneed she reached out for him- an innocent touch of hands on shoulders. Well, innocent until they _actually_ touched. Then it was all _heat_ and _instinct _as her hands moved against her will, sliding over wide shoulders until fingertips grazes shoulder blades. It _should _have been awkward, with Morgan upstage and behind them, but it _wasn't _and that shocked Cal enough to have her loose her footing and then she was falling forward.

_Right_ into _Luke_… and she was _lost_.

Lost in the intensity of those eyes, boring right into the deepest parts of her. Lost in the feel of his body pressed _right up against hers _from toe to chest…

It was a sensory overload, was what it was. Time seemed to stop, the world around them slowed and even the constant roar of voices quieted for a blissful moment. He was _so close_ soaking up every last detail of what he saw when he looked at her. _So beautiful _the barest hint of flush under all that tan from the heat in the room, shine of light from above on damp skin. Every breath filled with the musky scent of male making her pulse race, her nostrils flare in order to get a better fix of the stuff.

_All she had to do was lean forward a little… _the thought echoed in wide-pupiled eyes inches from hers.

The single word, murmured breathlessly and just for her nearly undid her.

'_Hey…'_

Three letters a caress that skittered through her pleasantly, sending her soaring higher and faster than any drug ever could. If he'd asked her to follow him out of there then… to the restroom, to his car, to her apartment… her answer would have been _hell yes _and consequences be _damned._

Barely a blink and he was gone. The only proof that he'd ever been there, so deliciously in her personal space, the pleasant tingle where his thumb had grazed the curve of Cal's back (regretfully perhaps?) as if apologizing.

On stage with Morgan and out of reach, Luke was once again nothing more than a steamy, hot, _shining_ star an incredible fantasy.

Right. _Down girl._ Get yourself a drink and _shake it off_, Cal.

* * *

'_Crikey!_' Luke thought, once he'd righted himself enough to let Morgan's hand go. '_One fumble and I'm nursing a semi-! __**Down **__boy, you'll have the front row's eyes out!_'

That done, there was business to be attended to – far-out-places to go, people to see. The second Luke hit the boards he took over the place, his presence spreading out to fill the whole arena – commanding and gathering everything together in a way you just didn't see anywhere else. Staggering as he pushed himself to his feet, Luke approached the guy with the Firebyrd Strat – who couldn't have been out of his teens.

He was perched nervously in the wings, looking like a rabbit in the headlights as he clung to his guitar. All he'd wanted to do was play some covers with a coupla friends! (Even if Jerry-on-Bass was being kind of a douche-bag about it). And now he was surrounded by the, freakin', mad, bad and dangerous of Europe, with their chain-smoking women and disorientating lack of humility. Oh, great, and now some random half-naked dude was gunning for his guitar to, just, stick a _cherry _on top of the night's humiliation.

Or so he thought...

'Y'alright?' Luke struck out amiably, leaning forwards and sticking out his hand. 'What's your name?'  
'Tom-Bob!' he spluttered, starting to give the right name out of habit, and then remembering what was on his ID.

Luke laughed, a dazzling smile flashing.  
'Tombob?' He said. 'Awesome!' he nodded at the drummer, who was basically a big nose sticking out from a massive moustache and two curtains of impenetrable brown dreadlocks. '-Who's 'at?'  
'That's Honk.'  
'...Honk?'  
'_If you wan' go faster._' Muttered the nose.  
They watched him, to see if anything else was forthcoming.  
It wasn't.  
'Right...' Luke continued briskly. 'I think you're sittin' on something't belongs to me.'  
'_It a git-ar..._'  
'Woah! Easy on the big words, Speedy!'  
'_Gibson..._'  
'Aye, that's the one. Chuck it up, mate.'

Honk swung his eyeless head, picked up the object tucked behind his stool – and straightened with a beautiful black white-trimmed _Les Paul_. Luke's eyes lit up. He took his baby reverentially back in both hands, re-attaching her to the black strap around his shoulders, adjusting the trem, hooking her up to the Vox amp and plugging himself into the double-pedal Morg was using for bass. Once finished, the effect was strange. The guitar appeared perfectly, naturally in place, as if there had somehow been an invisible space on him, waiting for it all night. He looked... _finished_.

'Alright lads,' Luke muttered quickly, planning the assault, his head ducked in a wave of gold as he tuned up. 'My name's Luke, that man-eater behind me's Morgan – don't worry, she won't bite. We're The Hellsingers – and with a bit of luck, we're going to do somethin' you won't've before, and_ wing_ it.' Behind him, Morgan, the dark Slash wannabe, an intimidatingly serene figure by anyone's standards, was doing the same. She lit up and blew a stream of leisurely smoke into the vacuum of space over the heads of the crowd, totally ignoring them.

Luke looked up, tossing that thin veil of Kurt Cobain hair out of his eyes.

'What you reckon. Y'up for it?'

Tombob looked at Honk, and Honk (as far as it was possible to tell) shrugged. Tombob gulped, opening his mouth to try and get himself out of this madness- and yet... and yet there was something _about _this guy. He radiated such an aura of confidence and certainty in the fairness of the Universe, it almost made you believe-  
'Tom.' Luke interrupted him, putting a hand on his shoulder. 'It'll be awesome. _Trust me._'  
And the funny thing was – he did.

The crowd weren't so open to the idea, though. As willing as the men among them had been to accept Hot-Chicks in place of a Bad Band, they weren't so keen on the idea of this guy who'd been distracting the other chicks all night, getting up there and butchering some classic tune. Luckily, there was a break in the need for them, because people were pausing to, variously, grab a beer, have a whiz, get some air, shoot up, and fall over (and hopefully not in that order).

* * *

Towards the back of the room, Winchesters and Co. were awed by the awesome power of the two women who had taken the place by storm. Sam was sitting on the booth table, long legs swinging beneath him, watching as his brother gave himself over to the fan frenzy that had become the crowd.

Cell phone raised in the air, head tilted at what _had _to be an uncomfortable angle, Dean was trying to capture every last second of the once-in-a-lifetime show they were being treated to.

No one was happy to see Cal leave the stage, least of all Dean (who had secretly been hoping to see body parts pop out from behind shiny blouse-hanky-type-stuff). It was with that hope that he followed her movement, via cell phone screen, as she slid down- and right up against _Luke_. Whoa now, suddenly things weren't so cool.

"Oh_ hell _no!" Shock, surprise and denial all in one angry growl, the sound of which must have alerted Sammy's 'something's wrong' radar because there was six foot forever of him leaning over Dean's shoulder to see what he was upset about.

"_Wow _man, that-_ huh. _Um…sucks to be you?" Yeah, that smile Sam wasn't even trying to hide? Did_ nothing _for Dean's foul mood.

"Yeah, right. Whatever." He grumbled replaying the momentary brushing of bodies he'd captured on his phone as an amused Sam watched. Just as the moment came where he could swear they'd been about to kiss, Dean had an epiphany. An idea so devious that it just might work. "Wow, look at all the chemistry between those two. Such a waste."

Jazz caught a glimpse from over Dean's other shoulder.  
"Oh, I don' know 'bout _that_...' He said, fairly. He narrowed his blue eyes in relish. 'Call it one for the spank-bank."  
The brothers exchanged an old-fashioned look – _Drag-queen... Right..._

Sam glanced from Dean to the phone and back again, suddenly confused by the self satisfied grin his brother wore.  
"_What's _a waste?"  
"Him." Dean nodded to Luke, who was now up on stage with Morgan.  
"Yeah, right."  
"Oh yeah, _absolutely. _She's gonna be_ real _disappointed when she finds out he bats for the other team."  
"No, _no way_." Sam sputtered. He wouldn't, would he? Oh damn, he totally _would_. "Are you _suicidal?_"  
But Dean wasn't hearing any of it, or pretending not to anyway, as he followed the sway of Cal's hips three feet ahead of him while she made her way to the bar.

Sam considered going after him, if only for damage control in case Cal decided to start throwing punches, but was held back the long boa clad arm that draped itself casually across his shoulders, and the ring-strewn fingers which alighted on chest.

'Let him go, babe,' Jazz said warmly, watching Dean as a zoo-keeper might, when a creature was released back into the wild. '_Let him go..._'

W-hich left Sam all alone with the magnificent towering drag-queen. Which was... awkward.  
"So," Jazz began conversationally, slyly eying his face – now tight with nerves and a polite but above-all impersonal smile. "I bin meaning t'axe... How'd you get that mess on your pants?"

Sam's eyelids flickered in preemptive exhaustion.

_Thanks Dean..._

Luckily for Sam, Jazz was soon distracted.

The sound of a human breath ghosted startlingly from the sound-system speakers; Luke was ready to begin. And there was this to be said about it: when you heard his speaking-voice through a mic, it was a whole different experience. You payed attention, just to the voice, and found there was a whole set of deeper, sexier harmonics to it, which just breezed past in everyday conversation (as close to everyday as Luke ever got). Suddenly the European accent – British, but with that slow-lilting melodic Welsh slur, one a foreigner couldn't _quite _pin down – sounded exotic and mysterious, like a French woman's. What he was saying – over the rumblings of the crowd, the resumed conversations (all raving about the girls' performance) and the clinking of beer-bottles – as he pressed his lips briefly to the mic, was this:

'Alright. I'm Luke, this is Morgan, that's Tombob, and Honk on drums. We're _The Hellsingers_, and this one's for Jazz, the dude who got us here.'

He stood back, and dropped his attention to the guitar, the only one of the musicians in motion, in an island of calm. It was obvious that this was going to be dire if he couldn't really play, and the mood in the crowd reflected that: _You've been distracting us all-night, Golden-Boy – this better be __**good.**_ The sound of feedback started to stutter and scratch, forming wah-wah bubbles as he did- _something_– to the strings. Foot working on the pedal, swaying back and forth without playing any specific notes. It sounded like a mistake. A wave of nervousness quivered through the crowd – they weren't sure if he'd started yet. Or if he knew he was even _making _those sounds.

But then, gradually... curious frowns started to disperse themselves across faces, eyes started to gleam in the faintest hint of recognition. Dude, was that... it wasn't...?

And suddenly, shockingly- **BLAM**- a fat, juicy melody burst on their ears like ripe fruit. In came the notes, wah-wah wavering, and some people actually cried out in affection and surprise. It wasn't feedback at all – the dude was playing _Hendrix!_ Luke's head shot up, and – _ha!_ – the charade of introspection had _vanished_, totally and utterly, in favour of a wide, white, mischievous smile. Delighted that they'd taken it hook line & sinker, his turquoise eyes crinkled up and sparkled with glee.

Bass and drums joined the battle with a hiss of high-hat. And suddenly it was full-on, rich, and powerful – that same hook ramming itself down every listener's throat and yanking them to their feet. The crowd, now a single sentient being, woven together of rhythm, inside it the first person rocketed into the air. Propelled off the floor like a Masai warrior. And, as if the demon hands of Hell were flicking them up from below, a Mexican wave of moshing broke out among them, and crashed against the stage.

Luke let his lips touch the mic again, the column of this throat working as he leaned back under it, as his fingers stroked the guitar and sent that legendary tune streaming that into their ready waiting bodies. His smile extended beyond the mic as he started to sing:

'_Well, I stand up next to a mountain, and I chop it down with the edge of my hand. Well, I stand up next to a mountain, and I chop it down with the edge of my hand. Well, I pick up all the pieces, make an island – might even... raise a little sand! Oh yeah! Cause I'm a Voodoo Child-[I' oh God, the Music, that fickle mistress, was climaxing '-[ILord knows I'm a Voodoo Child, babe!_'

Now! What you must appreciate, is that even the ugliest of people, once they get up on a stage, once they demonstrate an aptitude for music, become _infinitely_ more attractive. Talent is a great, bewitching redeemer, it overrides our ability to see any flaws us humans may have. It beguiled, and compelled, and persuaded people to follow where one person lead. This was true of Cal – saved from a lynching, as she wove to the bar, only by the male populace's knee-jerk fear of rejection. So, whereas Luke could have had anyone in that bar even before he started _playing_ – _now_...? Now, as the song flowed through him, there wasn't a woman in the audience who wouldn't have jumped him in a heartbeat, given the chance – not even the shy and retiring ones. The word, it seemed, was out: Crowd Surfer Boy wasn't hot – he was _shit _hot.

Sam nearly had his head and his beer taken off him as Jazz _exploded _out of his seat, precarious platform heels screeching in alarm as he turned side-on and skidded smoothly into the mob. Starting to move rhythmically as he went – his purple coat thrown back from the hip, revealing a long stretch of sheer violet stocking, the boots all the way to the knee. Then he had thrown it off completely, dancing in only the plum-purple basque, the diamanté strung garter-belt. His smooth dark limbs – sharply cut like treacle toffee – were exposed, gleaming midnight all over as he slid into the crowd, his afro a blue-tinted halo, standing proud, and disappeared into their euphoric, amorphous midst, a mirage in the desert...


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6**__: Night Prowlers _

Meanwhile, over by the bar, Cal was still reeling from her close encounter with Luke's magnificent body. She'd be hard pressed to pick a favorite part, but those hands were definitely somewhere at the top of the list. Mm, those _hands_… wrapped around the mic stand as he changed its height (_on her waist as she slipped from the stage_)… caressing the guitar that seemed to complete him (_ghosting up her sides as their bodies fit together, sending a jolt of awareness through them both_)… drifting down past the guitar to… Oh.

There was a satisfied, _knowing _smile curling the edges of her lips as she turned to the bar to order a drink. He was feeling her alright. He _had _to be, to tuck it down to the side like that. Oh, _this guy_ would be one to remember.

"Hey, Maria! Can I get a…" Cal was mid-beer order when Luke stepped up to the mic and just _breathed_. Slow and sexy the sound rolled over the place like some sort of erotic wave, forcing Cal to grip the bar's edge just to stay standing. _Holy mother of…_ "Beer, Maria. Make it two." Dean, who'd slid up behind her, finished ordering for her.

"_Wow._" She was reduced to single words as Luke stroked his instrument, coaxing a little Voodoo Child to life. The song just _poured _out of him and right into _her_ (and every other soul in the place). If she didn't know any better she'd have thought there was some sort of magic at work here. Luke's eyes met hers for a brief electric moment before he closed them and spun the next verse. _'cause Im a voodoo child. Lord knows Im a voodoo child baby' _The man was making love to the mic with his mouth, and every woman in the place wished they were in its place… _including_ Cal. The things she wanted to do to that sexy, half naked, _edible _man…

Dean startled her by fitting himself snugly at her back, under the guise of not having enough room. Sliding an arm around her he fit the bottle of beer she'd ordered into her hand, his fingers brushing hers as she grasped it distractedly. It'd take a little more than some close contact and a beer to get Cal's attention from what was on that stage.

And that's it really. Dean's had enough of this crap. The way she _lookin_' at the guy, like she's undressing him in her head… and let's face it here, there really isn't much to take off before he's _naked- _and the thought of Cal thinking of Luke _without any clothes on _is what makes up his mind for him. Oh, this was it alright. It is _on._

Leaning in a little closer to be sure she couldn't ignore him, Dean got ready to drop the 'G' bomb. "So, uh, He's not half bad."

"I'd say _that's_ an understatement." She was still eating him up with her eyes, but Dean had her attention and he was counting that as a win.

"Right. Guess that makes it a shame then, huh?" It was almost too easy. Setting things up like that, walking her straight into it. Best part was that it was working all too well. Cal, who had become suspicious of this sudden sympathetic tone he'd taken on, had turned away from the object of her fantasies to get a good look at Dean.

"Dude, what exactly do you mean by that: it's a shame? The guy is, like, the _embodiment_ of sex."

Dean scowled his distaste, 'cause that was an image he could've been spared, but didn't let it deter him from his mission.

"Oh? Well yeah, uh, the dude's not exactly into the ladies if you know what I mean."

It was a thing of beauty, the way her eyes went all wide with shock like that. The way they cut from Luke up on stage, where he was seducing the room with his voice, to Dean in denial. "No, no _way_ Winchester. I don't know what your game is but there is _no way_ that a man _like that _swings the other way."

He was with Morgan, after all, wasn't he? And there was that moment by the stage just now… No. Couldn't be. And yet…

Dean wasn't so sure it would work at first, but there was a hint of doubt in those baby blues that said deep down she was buying it, so he was full-on going with it.

"Oh yeah. You better believe it. The guy is definitely gay. _Flaming_. Seriously."

And she's got that 'I don't know' look going on, not quite ready to believe it as she watches the guy, muscles rippling while he drags out the guitar solo.

"Oh come _oon_ Cal, he's _totally_ gay. Just look at the way he's dancing up there. Straight guys don't move like that, all…" Dean, wave of hand toward the scene being made onstage. "…you know, _bendy_ and stuff."

One more long, considering look from Cal and he knew he'd done it. The way she was looking at Luke, like he was some sort of puzzle to be solved instead of a melt-in-your mouth dessert waiting to be devoured. Yeah. She bought it.

Then she turned on him, eyes blazing like little blue flames, and took the reins from him.

"Alright, hot shot, how 'bout you show me how _straight_ guys dance, hm?" She crooked a finger, backing away slowly toward the dance floor, beckoning him before turning her back, apparently expecting him to just follow her.

He watched her wiggle her way back over toward Sam. Handing him the beer in her hand for safe keeping she turned back to Dean just long enough to wink before strutting her way back out into the mass of dancers.

Frozen to the spot, he wasn't really sure what to do. Dude, he _didn't_ dance. Dean Winchester was _way_ too cool for that. But Cal was out there, waiting for him, moving _indecently _to the sound of Luke's voice. Waiting for _him_…

He felt a small hand come to rest on his shoulder and turned slowly to find Maria, the bartender, sliding him a shot of something with a funny little smile on her face. "This one's on me, tough guy. You better drink it up and get out there if you want a shot at her. Cal's sort of a 'go big or go home' kind of girl. I don't know how you managed to distract her from Golden Boy up there, but you got her attention. You're going to have to get out there and dance with her if you don't want to lose it again."

Well that was a kick in the butt if he ever got one. She was right though. If he didn't get out there Cal would probably find herself some beefcake to scratch that itch she was feeling (Probably _Luke_)and that would just _suck_.

Downing the shot of liquid courage in one swift move, he flashed a bright smile at Maria (making her blush prettily) before heading out- jaw clenched against the harsh reality that he was actually gonna _dance_- to join Cal.

Up on stage, the object of their conversation was having a_ whale _of a time.

He finished his riffing on Hendrix, and went immediately onto a propulsive, melodious Bad Company/Free medley – _Rock Steady_ – which his voice was perfectly suited for. His had a kind of throaty, belting sandiness to it, a broken-ness in his mid range, that grounded everything he sang, made it sound rocked-out and bluesy. He could've been singing _nursery rhymes_ and they wouldn't have been any the wiser – plus, Bad Company put less pressure on the others. They came to a close on the apocalyptic-sounding Wishing Well. Luke was guiding the others (well, not Morgy – she'd have taken his head off just for implying the need!) by standing back a little, exchanging ecstatic wide-eyed looks, leading-on smiles at the magical novelty of the jam, dancing through their hands.

They gave up on the softly-softly fade-out as it vanished into the tumult – there was just no way they were going to get away with "quiet" unless Luke did something. When he retracted his lips and attention from the mic, he looked around for Morgy's approval, and found himself the subject of a withering glance – her scorn placed her in a very small minority of two. Luke beamed in delight – if _Morgan _was scowling, he could usually take it as given that he'd been ridiculously, unnecessarily good. Ha! He turned to spread the vibe of triumph with his band-mates: Tombob, whose hanging jaw and soup-plate sized eyes made him resemble a human pez-dispenser; and Honk, who was so shocked he couldn't even move! Or blink, or... show any sign at all that he'd actually heard it. But the sentiment was there!

'Whatcha got there, Tombob?' Luke posed a question conversationally over the racket, knowing that if there was one thing musicians got talkative about, it was their instruments.  
Tombob squeezed the neck of his guitar. 'It's a, uh, it's a Firebyrd.'  
'_Good man._' Luke reacted fervently, nodding as he treated the guitar to an expert once-over. 'How many pick-ups you got there?'  
'Uh, two.' He said in the same tense voice.  
'No Humbucker though.'  
'No. I'm... saving up.'  
'Ah, there's your problem. Too much feedback, mate, you need that second coil-'  
All of a sudden, the truth seemed to rush up on Tombob – that he'd just been part of the best mini-set of his lifetime, possibly of _O'Leary's _lifetime. He blinked violently and sort of whole-body _flinched _himself awake.  
'Dude!' He half-yelled. 'But- yuh- _that was awesome!!_'  
Luke grinned, and clouted him on the shoulder again.  
'Told you!'  
'Oi!' Morgan cut in, her breath saved for her cigarette. 'Hendrix! Are we playin' or what? Cuz if not, I need a drink.'  
'Calm down, mun! One more belter and they'll be so knackered they won't mind us having a break.'  
Morgan finished pulling on her cigarette and tucked it back into the band of her hat – the smoke-trail winding itself, chimney-like, from her head, as if a phantom snake had chosen to attach itself to her.  
'Alright.' She agreed. 'What?'

The strains of it filtered down just as, down in the crowd, Dean reached that wriggling back...

"_There's no sight she'd rather see- Then poor ol' broken hearted me."_

Cal hooted her happy recognition of the new song choice which, in all fairness, was right up her alley. Dean watched hungrily as she put her hips into it, taking to the beat easily.

"_I never been the kind of man- To let a woman change my plan"_

Yeah, _right_ on up her alley. Still, Dean was doing this thing. The closer he got, the surer he was about this dancing stuff.

"_But all of that was history- When she sho' nuff did this to me"_

Then he was there, in her personal space. Her hips moving, chest heaving and _acres_ of the bare skin of her back so close he could feel the heat coming off it.

"_I took the line, the hook, the bait- And now I'm sick from what I ate…" _

And he did, totally, in both hands. The feel of all that soft skin, sinewy muscle shifting across his palms as she moved and pulled him into it.

Oh, he wasn't dancing. Not really. Too cool for school, that Winchester. But he'd taken that first step, putting his hands on her like that in an odd echo of Luke's earlier. Rough calloused hands sliding up and over bare curves, making her truly thankful she'd taken off her jacket. He'd been content to just stand there as the song started, feeling her move for him, not knowing what a tease it was to have him there.

Wasn't until about halfway through the song that Dean finally stepped into her personal space and started swaying with her.

So yeah, it wasn't dancing, by any stretch of the imagination… but it felt good, and that was enough for Cal to want to go with it.

"_The force of her magnetic pull was cruel and unusual"_

Focused as he was on Cal, still every so often some of the lyrics would reach him, making him wonder if Luke had chosen this song purposely with Cal in mind. It fit her perfectly. Her and every guy she'd ever played the game with. Caustic as she could be sometimes, somehow she always managed to get what she wanted and always handed to her happily.

"_Baby treat me as you will- Yours to bless, yours to kill"_

He didn't know if he was doing it right, but she sure seemed to be enjoying it. Her arms had come up to rest on his shoulders. Hands too small and smooth to have any right belonging to a hunter of any gender grazing his neck and across his cheek before coming back down to shoulder height… and oh _hell yeah_. Cal was feeling playful, and he wasn't hating it _at all._

She shifted back into him so that they were just barely touching and suddenly she was filling his senses. Her body against his, her laughter as she tried to sing along, the scent of shampoo, soap and girl… the sight of her _alone _enough to raise the blood pressure.

"_She'll get bored of me one day or I'll resolve to walk away  
With good intent my road is paved but I'm not sure I want to be saved"_

And no, being saved was the farthest thing from his mind right now. He was in that pleasantly buzzed place he liked to go after a good hunt or a rough day. That spot about three beers into the night, a girl on his arm and an entire night ahead of them when the whole world past man and woman seemed to melt away. It was nice feeling, being able to let the crowd swallow them up and just melt into the ebb and flow of the dancers, becoming a small part of the larger whole.

Sam watched the whole thing happen, experiencing that all-too-familiar sensation of The Third Wheel, as it was in any situation that included Dean going after – well, whoever.

He saw (with relief) first Jazz, then Cal, then Dean himself, weaving into the fabric of the crowd and disappearing to him. He was still seated on the edge of the booth table, his beer now mercifully empty, his hands tucked easily into his pockets, nevertheless feeling a warm buzz. His long legs were crossed at the ankle, alone in a bare floor strewn with empty popper bottles, beer stains and skuff marks. It didn't matter about tripping people up – there was acres of space around the booths, which had emptied themselves of people the second they recognised _Voodoo Child._ So it provided a pleasantly cool corner to relax in, removed from the mayhem.

Feeling nature call, Sam pushed himself to his feet just as, to his surprise, there was another rush for the dance-floor (Luke had started in on another propulsive song, a definite dance-to). He wove past them all to the bathroom, and fell through the door (which had a guitar-lead sign hanging on the door, the Ladies room an amp – go figure) with a backward glance. It was even cooler in here, and, under the layers of Carharrt and plaid, Sam took the opportunity while he was approaching the urinals – to roll his shoulders and crack his tired neck. He took aim (important, when you're 6-5) and stood there, staring blandly at the tiles inches away, mentally correcting the graffiti.

_Nope, no, that's wrong, you can't spell it that way, that's physically impossible._

'Uuuurrrrrgggggggggh.'

It's not a sound any man wants to be surprised by, especially not when he's got his business in hand – but Sam, to his credit, only glanced around, and zipped up.

The source was a man, thankfully _not _approaching him with a chainsaw, who was staring at the washbasins – or, more specifically, at the mirrors above them. The guy was clearly some kind of hobo, almost black with dirt, and stinking. Sam turned all the way around and took a step, his eyes trained on the reflection which hove into view in the mirrors – it was all he could see of the man's face. It was _frightening_, to put it mildly. The guy's jaw was hanging way, way loose, dribbling a long cable of spittle onto the floor, leaving a stain on his chest, where his shoulders were hunched forwards, troglodyte-like. His eyes were the most worrying, though – they were ringed all around with dark bruised circles, bloodshot, rheumy, and utterly, utterly blank, as if he'd been doped up and left there, to sway on the spot. Apparently his own reflection held some importance for him, though, because he was blinking at it slowly.

Sam swallowed uneasily.  
'Hey man,' he began, concerned. 'Are you alright?'

He reached out a tentative hand and tried shaking the guy's shoulder – but to no avail. He got no reaction. He even tried waving a hand in front of the guy's face, and clicking his fingers (with an inward wince at the rudeness of it) but nothing happened. Unfortunately (as Dean would have put it), there were no sticks around to poke him with. So, disgruntled and anxious, Sam scooted awkwardly round him. He washed his hands – ducking his head and flashing that tight, polite smile all the while – and left the bathroom in a hurry. The noise, and heat, and light of the main bar fell on him like a tropical wind, buffeting his ears and eyes.

Just as he was clear of the doorway, though, Sam looked down curiously at his hands, and noticed that some of the dirt had refused to come off. Frowning, his forehead wrinkling between the two halves of his dark hair, he drew his fingers closer to his face. As the door swung shut, he peered at them, rubbing thumb against index finger. Which was when he realized, with a thrill of experienced recognition – it wasn't dirt. It was _Ectoplasm._

Gut clenching in sudden, horrible dread, Sam blasted his way back through the door – and found the room empty. A high window had been smashed, though, and a long tail of blood curled forbiddingly down from it, clinging to the grout in the tiles, trickling from the jagged edge of one of the pieces of glass, left in tact – horribly like teeth in a gaping mouth. Like the sewer-snake. Sam let the door swing back, and turned his attention to the room – to the crowd.

Okay. So where the hell was Dean?

Sam walked a few faltering paces, eyes glazed with concentration as he tried to pick out his big brother from the mess of different faces – he must've been deep in the mob. Sam took another step closer, in danger of being caught on the chest by flailing limbs – it was a really _energetic _song – and just as he spotted Dean, someone _else_ spotted _him._

'Saaam!' Jazz cried exuberantly, sailing past in the mass of people like a piece of glitzy driftwood. 'You come to dance, baby!'

Sam's eyes widened in absolute horror, quickly followed by a semi-casual laughing attempt to throw off the attention – abso_lute_ly the wrong reaction to show Jazz. But before he could explain himself, slide away with an apology, or even form coherent words, Sam was grabbed by the front of his jacket – _'Oh no!'_ - and hauled into the throng, where he could do nothing but let himself be gyrated at and clung to like a chunk of meat. Which is not a thing any man wants to have to experience, especially when there is important business in hand.

Sam was... not good on his feet. Jazz was doing something akin to a jive, which seemed to include a lot of being hurled around by one wrist, hands waving, energetic easily-trodden-on feet, and spinning into Sam's chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Sam bore it out with as much dignity as he could muster, trying all the while to squeeze through the crowd of similarly-moving dancers and reach that familiar crew cut head on the other side. They Catherine-wheeled past the front row, almost making Luke miss his cue in surprise – who started, and had to hold his face away from the mic under the force of his laughter. If anything, the music seemed to get even faster, even more exuberant.

'You gotta loosen up, man!' Jazz's whispery voice sounded in his ear, suddenly, the next time the Drag-Queen had spun himself into oblivion, and Sam jumped out of his skin as a pair of big hands landed on his hips, and tried to make them sway. Wh-ich just wasn't happening. You'd have thought someone had just stuck a jump-lead up his ass (as Dean would've eloquently put it).

'Woaargh!' (was the noise made when) Sam tried and failed to strangle his yell. 'H-oh! That's alright man! Really!!'

He was utterly lost when it came to Drag-Queens.

Did they count as women or not? How the hell did guys like Luke stay cool?!

* * *

It looked like Cal wasn't the only one who'd scored herself an unlikely dancer. The big blue afro belonging to Jazz was bouncing merrily along, bobbing above all the other dancers. This, of course, was not the unusual part. Cal had no doubt that _that _one was right at home on the dance floor. Jazz looked like he was _born _to dance, it was the guy he'd dragged out there with him who didn't look so comfortable. 

There was no mistaking the head of floppy brown hair that was just this side of too long, even from behind. Sam, who also towered above most of the other dancers and stuck out painfully among the rest. Yes, because of his partner… but also because he just wouldn't loosen up. She wondered briefly if Dean had noticed the mismatched pair, until the music changed…

And suddenly she found herself being spun right around, feeling light as air, before being pulled up against a large wall of chest. Cal was too proud to go so girly as to lay her head on his shoulder, but that didn't stop her from pressing her cheek to his. Between Luke's _voice_ going all mellow and suggestive and that first inhale of _Dean_…(all gunpowder, sweat and skin) well, a girl just couldn't resist _that _now could she? So she gave into it instead, letting go of the tension that had come from the day's hunt and just melting into him.

* * *

Sam caught sight of Dean's quiff, bobbing past in the near distance, and tried to do his best to get himself within earshot, parting the people with outwards strokes of his long arms, like a swimmer in treacle. 

'Dean!'

Luke was attacking the mic, screaming out a long startling note, the guitar strobing feel-good vibes all over the place, the drummer hitting something other than the snare. And suddenly silence – just acapella singing, and the band clapping along. Sam looked from Luke, past the members of the clapping crowd, to his –friggin'- oblivious brother, on the brink of waving a hand, and wondering if he could use this moment to- Nope! Too late, they were playing again. Eventually the song fizzled out, though, to a roar of cheering, whopping and applause, and – finally – Sam had a chance to... to... Oh God...

Luke was playing on his own, a dreamy, close-encounters kind of music, and had his eyes closed behind the mic. Morgan kicked in with slow, ponderous, sinuous base, and when Luke eventually opened his mouth, he uttered a whispering breath, and-

'I am going to _kill him_.' Thought Sam. Which is, curiously enough, somewhat similar to what Jazz was thinking!

They were playing what could only be described as... as soft-rock porn! Suggestive lyrics, blatantly suggestive throat-noises, a slow beat, trance-like melody. Dude... Off to the right, just out of the way of the stage, some girls had clambered onto one of the huge black speakers and seemed to be having even more fun than all the couples. Sam could feel his entire body going rigid with shock and horror as it found itself pincered into a vice-like grip, under Jazz's arms, his extremities either going numb from lack of blood flow or, well, just out of self-preservation. There was an afro perched on his shoulder._Oh dear God..._

'_Keep on pushin' babe, like I've never known before... you know you drive me crazy child – I just wanna see you on the floor... I want a superstitious woman... She got a superstitious mind.'_

But, of course, the musicians being such as they were, things couldn't stay slow and relaxing for long – soon Luke had cranked up his voice a few notches, the beat was harsh and marching, and tortured screams of guitar had started to punctuate his moans n' groans. Soon, the couples had separated from each other again (including – Thank God! – Sam's) jumping up and down to the beat in a wave, back in that synergistic fierce delight, clapping overhead with Luke's joyous hands. Luke himself was a manically-bopping figure behind the mic., feet pressed together and bouncing in perfect unison with his public.

'_So take me down slow an' easy! Make love to me slow an' easy! I know that hard luck an trouble is coming my way – so rock me til I'm burned to the bone! Rock me til I'm burned to the bone!'_

Sam couldn't sigh or roll his eyes enough.

* * *

They were _glued _together. Dean could feel moist, warm breath on his neck and was just getting into _oh yeah_ when the beat picked up again, moving Cal along with it and Dean… well he caught sight of something that had him itching to reach for his phone again. Sammy, dancing just a few couples over… with _Jazz._

Swaying Cal around through the crowd to get closer, he reached out and tapped his brother on the shoulder. Sam, who whirled around wide-eyed, looking for all the world as if he'd been caught doing something indecent. Big brother didn't miss the instant relief either. So, looked like somebody hadn't been able to find a tactful way to turn down the drag queen. _This _was gonna be _fun_!

"_Dude_, You _do _know that's a _guy_…right?"

Sam's cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment as he tried, yet again, to pull away from Jazz' firm grip. Cal leaned in, over Dean's shoulder, with a cheeky grin. Waving a finger in the general direction of her own throat she mouthed the words _Adam's apple_ with a roll of her eyes- as if to say _Dude, totally obvious!_

There was a narrowing of the eyes in Cal's general direction, because dude was _so not impressed_ but she just shrugged it off. No skin off her back, right? The hunt was over and she probably wouldn't see them for awhile once daylight came…

At least that's what she thought until Sam grabbed Dean by the arm and led him off the floor for an impromptu 'family meeting'. Judging by the sudden serious expressions they both wore, something was up.

Was there another hunt on the go? Knowing those two, probably. Well, okay then. Surely not something here at O'Leary's. I mean, come on, seasoned huntress such as herself around? She'd have caught wind of it before now… right?

Never one to be left out if there was a fun time to be had, Cal didn't hesitate to strut her stuff on over and crash their little pow-wow. "Alright. There's only one thing those faces you two are making can mean. Sooo, time to spill it boys. What're we hunting _this_ time?"

* * *

'_There's your problem_,' Luke thought to himself, as he finished off the rousing _Trews _song, fun to play. '_You're too good!_' 

He had been watching Cal's inexorable drift towards Dean, as the beat went on.

On the one hand, he was enjoying the view, and, on the other, not enjoying the strange new power of invisibility. It was a fresh experience, yes, and maybe even handy, but not something he was used to where women were concerned. The problem didn't seem to be attracting girls – he was having trouble enough batting off the ones who were continually jumping up from the front-row, raking greedy hands down him. And he was, t'be honest, a bit worried about the one who'd mounted one of the speakers like a prize bullfighter, and kept trying to get his attention by sucking on a lollipop. _Crikey_-Charlie.

No. The problem seemed to be in getting one _particular _girl's attention away from one particular _guy_.

In his spare, honestly pride-stripped core, Luke knew he was a good-looking bloke.

Alright, alright, maybe a bit more than good-looking. So he knew that it wasn't every day he came _across _competition. It provided an unusual, bubbling sensation in the shallow pit of his stomach, like butterflies (if he ever got them) or fear (though he'd never been overly-burdened with enough sense to know when to feel _that_, either). It felt _good _though. As if he'd just gambled everything on something big and was watching the wheel spin, like dancing down a knife-blade and only going faster.

Or was that just Cal herself?

One song later, he finished with a flourish, and tilted his head back like a cat basking in the midday sun. He cut an iconic figure, there, silhouetted under the heat of the lights, the almost-palpable warmth of joy from the crowd, rolling over him like steam out of a sauna. Hmm. He had that wonderful hum of blood in the fingertips, rarely allowed to be so skillful, that soaring feeling in his stomach – and, somehow, that odd otherworldly disembodiment, too. The one that always came from taking the music and wrapping your Self up in it.

Luke opened his eyes again, rolled out his shoulders, and started to interact with the front row as someone handed him a pair of cold ones – doubling right over his guitar, wings of golden hair swinging forwards either side of his face. Doing the meet-n-greet, with some difficulty, over the noise. Unfortunately, the interaction had a down side. There was one murderous-faced guy (with, for some reason, a bowl of helmet-hair flattened down all around the top of his head). Luke caught a couple of snatches of what he had to say, and then straightened up.

'Oh, Morg!' He called, leaning back to get within sound of the mic, so he could talk to her exaggeratedly over the sound-system. 'Bloke here says we suck!'

An 'ooooo' of disapproval went up from the crowd – those who could hear – and a mass of hands rained down on Asshat's back.

'Morg' meanwhile was busy retuning the bass, her head and attention down (it was because she felt uncomfortable being around Luke's Guitar-Face, it felt a little... wrong).

'Does he now...?' She shot back, disinterested, her lips right on her own mic, her head unmoving.

'He's sayin'...' Luke broke off to listen, and the faint sound of Asshat's continued tirade, drifted in, like a little man trapped in a box – cracking everyone up at Luke's timing. 'He's sayin'... He's sayin' he's going to fck my _momma_, and _your _momma. Oh dear...' Luke had his head twisted, to look at his sister, fighting down a smile. 'D'you want to tell him, or shall I?'  
'Knock yourself out, Flash.'  
'Well, _my _'momma's' dead,' Luke said into the mic., turning his face back to Asshat and earning himself an appreciative '_aww_'. 'And so's _her _momma, because it's the same woman. Oh, look at his face, Morg! Isn't that pretty?'  
'Certainly is, Bro,' Morgan muttered.  
'Oh, oh, hang on, he's still going...'

Luke was leaning on his amp now, nodding his head gravely as Asshat's abuse continued, as if he was the sole recipient and distiller of ancient wisdom. He could only keep a straight face until half-way through, though, and burst out into that characteristic transforming white smile of his:  
'Oh! That's a new one! He says I'm-'

Luke stood up properly, behind the mic, deciding to give this one his full attention, and allowed a perplexed frown to crease his face as he addressed a question to the moshers and bar-goers, elbows tucked in and hands pointing.

'Ladies...!' He began, sounding almost forgetful. '...Am _I gay?' _

The answer couldn't have been more definitive:_ 'Nooooooooooo!!_' booed the crowd, with overtures of '_**hell **__no_', '_that's crazy-talk!_' and '_if only..._' 

'Well, you learn somethin' new every day,' Morgan intoned into her own mic, breaking up the merry-making. '_He's _learned a little bit about our family-tree, and _we've _learned what a cnt with teeth in looks like.' _Wam-wam _went her pickin'-finger on the bass, punctuating the revelation with a rock-punchline, and that was that.

As the crowd broke into jeers and laughter, the band, for want of a better word, hustled.

'Alright brawd,' Morgan began, lapsing into Welsh as she, Luke and the Turtle-Kid put their heads together. 'What you thinkin'...?'

She'd noticed a certain gathering of the troops on the outskirts of the 'pit (that one that hadn't existed until Luke turned up) – including Dean, who she was going to have get round to exchanging the niceties with, at some point. Couldn't get out of this town any quicker.

The band broke up, and Luke retook his position in lead.

'Alright, last one!' He announced, and was met with a round of heartfelt booing. 'Ah, but wait 'til you hear it!'

The night was young. Time to get the deal done. If this had been Wayne's World, he would even now be stalking across the floor, to Cal's feet, to the jarring chords of _Foxy Lady _– but it wasn't Wayne's World, it was _Luke's _World, and that could only mean one thing. The sound-system picked up the edge of his dry laugh, like EVP crackling out of the way, to avoid the path of a roaring tide of bass, and then his fingers were on the Gibson, his lips on the mic, and it was time for Luke to _play._

_You need coolin', baby I'm not foolin'... I'm gonna send you... back to schoolin'... Wa-ay down inside... Honey you __**need**__... I'm gonna give you my love! I'm gonna give you my love! Oooooooooooooooooh. What a whole lotta love..._

Two minutes later, the girl on the speakers fell off.

* * *

The conversation going on between Luke (via microphone) and the Ass-hat heckler that Cal and Morg had kicked off the stage earlier made it impossible for either of the Winchesters to answer Cal's question. 

At the back of the crowd, they were only catching bits and pieces of what Luke was saying… but there were two specific bits of information Cal heard loud and clear. The first being that Luke and Morgan were brother and sister. _Good to know… _though not entirely helpful considering dude swung the other way…

She was looking right at Dean when Luke's voice boomed out of the speakers…

_'Oh! That's a new one! He says I'm-'_ there was a dramatic pause, Cal keeping firm eye contact with Dean as if sensing instinctually that whatever came next would be incredibly important…

_'Ladies...!'_ He began, sounding almost forgetful. _'...Am _I gay

Well that did it. She watched intently, anger building by the second, as several different emotions flitted over Dean's features. Shock being the first, that Luke's sexual preference had suddenly become a feature of the show… Guilt came next, clouding hazel eyes as he realized the lie had been brought to light, followed quickly with the wide eyed look of a man searching for a way out of a sticky situation… one Cal had no intention of supplying him with.

She was freakin' _furious_. I mean, there's playing the game… and then there's _being played_ and apparently Dean had done just that. "Oh, Luke's _gay_ is he?"

Dean's face had gone blank, mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say something, but wasn't quite sure _what_.

"_Flaming _is he?" Cal thwacked his arm, hard, eliciting a surprised grunt from Dean, who was now looking helplessly back and forth between Sam and Cal. "Oh _yeah_ Cal, he's _totally_ gay! He says…" Another good _thwack_! To the other arm this time, and Dean's not looking too happy about all the manhandling. Doesn't stop Cal, though, 'cause she's pissed off and on a roll… "Serves a girl right, trusting a word that comes out of that big mouth of yours." _Thwack, thwack_!! And what's bugging her the most about this is _why _he'd even _bother _lying to her about Luke… until it dawns on her. The revelation hits her and she can't believe how dense she'd been. His reasons were about as obvious as Jazz' Adam's apple.

"Just so I get this _perfectly_ straight- You _lied _to me about Luke being gay… _hoping_ to get into my pants?"

Dean, of course, doesn't even try to talk his way out of it. He's about as transparent as Saran Wrap by now, and she's already so wound up that anything he says at this point will only make things worse. So, he just shrugs a _well, uh, yeah _and hopes to hell she doesn't give him another black eye…

"Why you, yuh… _you_…" and the words that aren't quite making it out of Cal's mouth are starting to take on that lilting quality they tend to have when her accent comes out…

so at this point it's pretty clear to Sam that Cal's about to start leaning in on Dean in French, a sure sign that the punches were about to start flying. As entertaining as it promised to be, there was a _zombie_ on the loose and they just didn't have the time for this crap right now…

So, putting his own life on the line, he stepped up between Cal and Dean.

"Hey, _whoa_." He put a hand up to stop Cal when she made a move to go through him to get to Dean. "We don't have time for this, alright? You were right, okay? I just found a… there was a… I found a zombie in the Men's room, just now. I'd say that's a little more important right now, don't you think?"

Cal, who was still itching to let her fist fly in Dean's general direction due to recent Luke non-gay revelations, couldn't believe the story that had just passed Sam's lips.

"Yeah right, Sam." She'd expected something like that to come from Dean, out of self-preservation… looked like little brother was trying to come to his rescue.

"No, seriously Cal. I'm not making this up."

The weirdest thing was he sounded sincere, which was reason enough to make Cal wonder if he might actually be telling the truth.

"So, wait, you…you saw a _zombie_ in the men's room…_here?_ And I'm supposed to believe this isn't just some distraction in hopes it might save your brother here from the ass-kicking of a lifetime, _a-la_-O'Sulivan?"

A comment that Dean took immediate offense to, and was fully prepared to tell her as much: "Hey, _listen_…"

"Shut-_up_ Dean." Sam and Cal cut him off in unison, because at this point? They were both pretty frustrated with him over the evenings antics so far. Ignoring the dirty look he divided between them, they continued the zombie discussion as if he wasn't even there…

"Look, I _know_ it kinda looks like I'm trying to distract you. God only knows he probably deserves whatever you want to do to him, and it's almost a shame I'm not lying to you because it's pretty entertaining to watch when you… "

And okay, _that _dirty look from Dean is one he can't ignore. _Right, back to the business at hand… _because telling her Dean deserved to get hit for being a jerk wasn't really helping matters… So instead of continuing that particular train of thought he produced an ectoplasmed finger for them both to see. "I, uh… I touched it. Now you tell me, _distraction_?" Because he figured that was probably about all the proof she'd need.

And really? There was just no arguing with that 'cause you just can't _fake _ectoplasm…right? Well, a hunt was as efficient a way to work out your frustrations as any… so apparently they had work to do.

"Oh, _well_ then. Zombie it is."

Dean scrutinized the finger Sam was holding up, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You saw a zombie? And you _touched_ it?" Surprised, he slapped Sam on the back. "I'm proud'a you, man!" Cheeky praise that earned him a dark flick of the eyes from Sam and a muttered "Bite me." Which only made that slow smile grow wider… until Cal decided to pipe up again.

"So, somebody probably ought to go let Luke and Morg in on what's going on, right?"

And Dean saw it coming a mile away. Knew what she was going to suggest next… and tried to head her off…

"_I'll_…" and got shut _down_ by Cal's hasty "I'll do it!" before she practically ran off, into the crowd, and towards the stage.

"Well, I hate to say I told you so Dean, but…"

"_Dude_. It was a _good _plan!"

"_Sure_ it was, y'know, until she caught you out."

Together, they watched as Cal shimmied her way through the crowd, dancing up close and personal-like with pretty much any dude that got close enough. Looking back to make sure Dean was getting a load of what he so obviously _wasn't _getting before moving forward again. It just wasn't _fair_.

"I don't stand a chance, do I?"

Defeat and disappointment clear in his voice as he kept watching her, still able to feel the echo of her moving against him while they'd danced. Sam was sporting that big goofy grin of his at this new turn of events as he answered with an unapologetic.

"_Nope_."

And now it was Sam's turn to pat Dean on the back, sympathetically this time.

* * *

So Winchester had tried to cheat the game, eh? Well, the joke was on him because it had backfired on him… and worked out to her advantage. Now she could indulge in her favorite form of entertainment (annoying the hell out of him) with good reason and _now _this Luke guy was suddenly very available. What was that expression? Something about two birds, and one stone? 

And in the meantime, dancing up to the stage was a game all on its own. A shimmy here, a shake there… there was something fun about sliding in and out of people's personal space as she moved towards the stage. Every time she moved on to a new temporary partner, all up close and personal, she'd chance a glance back at Dean. There was a level of satisfaction in the fact that he was watching her, knowing full well that he wasn't getting anywhere near the package he'd been coveting, even as others were getting a free taste.

Of course she gave up those spiteful backward glances the second she was afforded a decent look at the stage. First Morgan, stunning with her long dark hair flowing out from under the top hat Ass-hat had donated to the band. Then Luke who was… he was… _wow._ That blonde hair of his had developed a little more curl and had gone a shade or two darker than it had been before, due to the dampness of sweat. The lean muscle of his arms, hard and taut from the exertion of performing. And the way his jeans _clung _to him… the man ought to be illegal!

_You've been learnin', and baby I've been learnin'..._

She knew the moment he'd spotted her coming his way in the crowd. Those _eyes_, zeroing in on the glint of light off her chest, dark and intense in all sorts of delicious, _promising _ways…

_Way, w-ay down inside... _

He simply watched her move across the floor, that incredible smile sending expectant shivers right through her. The way a shadow would pass over them, empowering her every time she'd cozy up to some random dude, until finally she was back down at the foot of the stage. _Whole lotta love... _What he saw was something like... a long, lingering, lap-dance – the other men Cal circled and ensorcelled may as well have been shop-dummies, for all the influence they had. She wasn't dancing for _them_. That private smile was creeping deeper into his features – lop-sided, impish, almost curious – his extraordinarily long eyes gleaming the come-on. Perfect for the shimmering fey he was reeling in, drawing to him.

And what a show to watch in the meantime, knowing that the barely-heard song in his throat was dictating how much sway – how much wriggle and writhe – how many times she'd throw her head rapturously from side to side. He loved the way she was seeking out the little quirks of melody in the tune, and screwing up her face to them in a "_damn _that's good" grimace of relish. Her jewel-bright glittering blue eyes were calling out, lasers through a fine filigree of dark strands of hair, past peaches-and-cream toned arms, up over her head, through the musk of heat and sweat and beer. Locked onto his like a wildcat in the long grass – every booted step a velvet paw, padding down.

He wasn't even paying attention to his fingers any more, they were doing their own work, tightening the net, weaving around him and the band and her, an impenetrable web of sound, which tensed and strengthened itself, and shrank around them. He realised he was addressing it all to Cal, though. '_Wanna whole lotta love?_' And then delighting in the way he could run his hand right down the fretts, from the top-side like Hendrix, for that long descending note, and watch it cause a _pulse _in her, in the whole crowd.

Then she had reached the front row, with the raving loonies, and her hands were flat on the boards at his bare feet – luckily, just at the moment the guitar broke away from the driving rhythm for the antsy drums – and Luke swung his head out of the path of the mic-stand, so he could double over. Their eyes locked as she took the hand he extended, a tangible current passing between them as he lifted her up to stand beside him – surprised at how feather-light she was, the back-muscles under his arms swelling outwards, like a swoop of human sculpture. (And if looks could kill, the venomous jealousy beaming at Cal's oblivious back would've blown the roof off).

Once again came that charged, electric moment between them, as they stood, with foreign breaths close enough to feather each other's hair, two magnetic bodies pushed close to bumping-point, and forced to ignore the power inside, _screaming _to be allowed to-

And then _she _was the one issuing a low voiced '_Hey_…' sultry and for his ears alone, in that light, intense voice.

Luke's lips twitched, amusement painting a shining lamp-bright fire behind his eyes, as he let go of her hand.  
'Hey...'

He took a step back – for a nanosecond, swaying closer, as if with intent, eyes zooming up and down her face – and, very slowly... he _knelt._

At her feet, he held out his guitar on its strap, so that there was a space between it and his pneumatically muscley stomach – in a pose somewhat akin to a devotee, offering up his sacrifice to a Goddess. He meant for her to put a toe out of line, and into his personal space. Cal perched her hands on her hips, raised an eyebrow in a deceptively confident way, looked him dead in the eyes, and stepped inside the bubble. Luke stood up again, in one lithe, fluid movement, his arms now extended around her bare sides, to hold his guitar in place. ('_Aw, dude, come __**on**_' cried a familiar anguished voice, in the background). Cal didn't realize that the shaky breath she exhaled, once he'd broken eye contact to lean around her – and just as he was reaching his full height (and thus the- uh- _electrodes _were rubbing) – shivered across his shoulder.

Luke laughed (which only made the rubbing worse).

'You need to turn around,' he murmured in her ear – somehow managing to make it sound like the filthiest proposition ever uttered in the history of Man – and Cal turned her silky exposed back, to press herself maddeningly into the minute geography of his torso. A perfect skin-on-skin fit, like water flowing down the valley.

'_Alright..._' he told himself, taking a mental breather. '_Think of cricket, Lu, think of cricket..._'

All the while the running beat was counting out, like a bomb, the nerve-bending quiver of their heartbeats, the throbbing knot of nerves, giddying them from their stomachs up. Meanwhile, Morgan had, of course, noticed her old acquaintance back on-stage – brilliant, as if Luke's indecent guitar-face needed any help – and side-stepped to get close enough to speak. '_What's up?_' She mouthed at Cal – but, unfortunately, Luke had, through necessity, just started in on the moaning/wailing/singing segment of the song – interwoven with entrancing zig-zags of guitar, like the stages of an LSD trip falling on them – and Cal seemed to be having trouble focusing in light of the barely-legal sounds coming behind her.

'_Cal_?' Morgan said more forcefully.

A-nd _right…yeah_ Zombies Cal, remember the zombies? But, who the hell could blame her with this living testament to everything sexy quite literally _surrounding _her? But yeah- zombies… and Morgan, who was still trying to get her attention and (good _God_ the man was making these spine melting _indecent _sounds…) _'Cal?' _

Okay, okay. Focus, Cal, focus…

"Zombies. Sam ran into a zombie in the men's room."

It was kind of hard to tell what Morgan thought of that, because the woman was staring at her as if she was high on something. Hard to gauge expressions too, what with that incredible body sculpted to hers, setting such a delicious pace for their rocking hips…

But Morgan's voice cut through again. Another question, this time it was something like "Are you sure?"

Like Sam, she knew that one word would be all that was needed here: "Ectoplasm." accompanied by a quick wave of fingers, meant to show that someone had actually _touched _it to be sure.

Suddenly the huntress had replaced the Rock Star. Outwardly Morgan was still this gorgeous, larger than life female manifestation of Slash… but Cal had seen that cold hard gleam in her eyes before, and it had _nothing_ to do with music.

As at the end of their earlier performance, Morgan nodded her assent to Cal in the general direction of the washrooms. It was a go ahead, a promise of distraction while the rest of them did what needed to be done.

Business completed Cal took a moment to indulge, to let herself be lost in the music and _Luke_.

Oh yeah, the man could _move_, but then so could _she_, and move she did. Slithering down his body she writhed with the music, partly trying to distract him from the song (a new game she could easily get into, had she a little more time), partly sliding her way out of his personal space.

All she'd managed was to distract herself with all that lean, flexing muscle that… that was gone all too soon, leaving her with a brief feeling of loss before she struck out for the edge of the stage again. There was work to do after all, and even though she no longer had the time to indulge in full-body contact with the hottest damned crowd-surfing rock star she'd ever seen… well the hours of fun she could have messing with Dean's head over this would probably help make up for it…

and later… well, she had _plans _for a certain entertainer… of the entertaining variety…

As soon as Cal's heels touched down on sprung floorboard again, the sound of guitar _exploded _out from behind her, and she allowed herself an indulgent look back – to see that Luke had dropped to his knees again, smiling at her, and was belting out that Led Zepp solo in her honour. Weighing down the lyrics with meaning. She turned her back again, then, playing hard to get, but couldn't suppress a little delighted, knowing smile. _Oh yeah! Winchester had it _coming...

_You've been coolin' – baby I've been __**droo-ooli-in'**_

And _so_ did _Luke_.

'_Shake for me girl!_' Came a last bugling call as she left the crowd. '_I wanna be your back-door man!_'

Back on-stage, Luke and Morgan were sharing the last of the singing out, Luke going to the mic and then waiting for Morg to echo, playing a musical kind tennis and making people in the front (who could see their faces) grin indulgently. _The Hellsingers _finished their set, Luke with a triumphant splits-kick in the air, coinciding with Honk's last clash of drums, and a wave of applause – cheering, whooping, people screaming until their lungs gave out – broke over the stage once more. He knocked back the cold beer resting on his amp, wiping the cool glass bottom of it across his forehead as Morgan did the same.

'Ahhh,' he sighed happily, smacking his lips as the last quenching drop vanished through his lips, and turned to his sister. 'What shall we do now, you reckon – the _Monster Mash_?'  
'_We_ are doin' nothing,' was her short reply. 'Go and keep an eye on that lot.' Morgan nodded in the direction of their lately-departed fellows.  
'Aw, why?' Luke's face fell. 'I'm havin' fun!'  
Morgan stared at him, mentally calculating what it would take to get him off her stage.  
'"That lot" includes Robot-spunk-girl...' She pointed out.  
Luke opened his mouth. He closed his mouth. He pointed his finger at her.  
'I _like _your thinking...' He said, in the style of a hard-bitten newspaper-editor to a rookie reporter.  
'Knock 'em dead, Sis!' His cry reached her, faintly, as Luke divested himself of his Les Paul and dived head-long onto the sea of onlookers.  
'Try not to knock your_self _dead, brawd,' Morgan muttered grimly in his wake, as she slit up, and then turned to address Tombob – '_Oh! Halfpint!_' – who jumped out of his skin. 'D'you know the lead to _Hellraiser_?'

Tombob gulped down. _Oh my God, Oh. My. God, dude, she's actually talking to you- __**speak**__, you retard!_  
'Uh, I- uh, I think so.'  
Morgan narrowed her eyes at him, not unkindly, and spoke in that nut-clenchingly sultry voice of hers.  
'Well, which is it – d'you _think_, or do you _know_?'  
'I- I know...'  
Carefully, sensing the kid's need for a confidence boost, Morgan took off the top-hat, shook out her long lustrous hair, and planted it on his head. She slapped him on the arm, leaving a bruise he wouldn't find until the next day, and would then cherish for the next week.  
'_Good boy._' She growled, and stepped up to the mic...


	7. Chapter 7

First of all, folks, I'd like to say thanks for taking the time to read our little fic. Cat and I have been having a heck of a good time writing Curse of the Voodoo Queen and we're glad to see that you all are reading it [and hopefully enjoying it as much as we are ;-) That being said: don't be shy guys! Drop us a line and let us know how you're finding it so far. We'd love to know what you're favorite (or even not so favorite) parts are. We love reviews and we'd love to hear from you!

Now, on with the fic: Enjoy: )

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_**Chapter 7**__ – The Writing's on the Men's Room Wall_

"Okay, so…we got a plan then?" Cal asked, clapping her hands together expectantly as she strutted her stuff over to the men's room door where Sam and Dean were already waiting.

"Well he, I mean the zombie, could still be around so we're going to have to get in there to take a look." _Awesome_. Sam, the practical one, already had their next move planned.

"O-_kay_. Good plan… except there's half a dozen guys waiting to get in there. How're we gonna do that with everyone watching?" And yeah, okay. Dean had a point… but she already had things well in hand.

"No worries, guys. It's already covered. We're going to do what me and Morgan did the night we first met." Cal, cool and confident in the face of zombies, vampires and all things supernatural, had it covered. Dean smirked, knowing _full well_ the words about to come out of his mouth were going to piss her off.

"So, how exactly's a _naked pillow-fight _gonna help us?"

_Thwack! _She didn't even bat an eyelash, just reached out and punched him in the shoulder.

"_God!" _He glared at her, earning himself an ugly scowl before turning to Sam looking for someone to take his side. "See, what'd I tell ya? _Anger management issues_, dude."

Sam was all business, though. (Well, except for the smile he spared when he watched Dean get hit by_ a girl. Again._ That was a sight that just never got old) After that mess with the giant sewer snake earlier he just wanted to get in there, do what needed to be done and get it over with.

"Alright, so what did you and Morgan do?"

The sparkle of mischief in Cal's eye wasn't necessarily (ever) a good sign. "We created ourselves a _distraction_."

"Right, naked-pillow fight." One smart-ass comment courtesy of Dean Winchester. (Big Surprise) Another loud _Thwap! _This time followed by a grunt of disapproval. "I'm just _sayin'_!"

Unable to hold back the eye-roll Cal decided she'd had enough of Dean, "So?" and was now addressing Sam, who could at least be counted on to actually _focus_ on the job at hand. "We going in?"

"Yeah. Wait here, shouldn't take us long."

Wait, _what_? He hadn't just… had he?

"Um, what do you mean 'wait here'?" They couldn't possibly believe she was going to just let them go in there and have all the fun, could they?

This being about the point where Dean decided to step back into the conversation.

"Where _else _are you gonna wait, Cal, up on stage? It's not like you can go in there _with_ us." Unbelievable! Apparently she really _was_ expected to just stay put.

"I can't? Well enlighten me here. Why the hell _not_?"

The answer seemed to be blatantly obvious to Dean, who was waving a hand in the air at the sign on the door.

"Oh, I don't know… maybe because you're a _chick_ and this is the _Men's_ Room?"

Amazed she turned back to Sam, who was shrugging helplessly. Dude seemed to think his brother had a point. Looked like it was about time to set these poor, misguided boys straight then, eh?

"D'you really think that's ever stopped me before?" She asked, rolling her eyes elaborately before squeezing past the line-up of men standing in front of the door. A flirtatious wink here, a dimpled smile there to smooth over the ruffled feathers of those waiting in line and she'd placed a deliberate hand on the door. One last look at Winchester, who clearly couldn't believe what he was seeing, and she pushed right on through.

The door swung a few times as three or four men came racing out, pink faced and mortified, before finally coming to a close. The few closest to the door shared a moment's hesitation. Each one wondering if it was worth the risk of going in there after the hot chick, before Cal's unmistakable muffled voice called out from inside.

"Hey, it's empty! You ladies coming, or what?"

Heads hung low and groaning their displeasure, the line of men gave up and shuffled off in search of another place to go.

* * *

Just as the door swung shut on Cal's ballsy back, the node of thought which'd been whirling at the back of Dean's head made itself known, and he finally clocked what was bugging him – he knew that song playing. Bass almost too deep to understand the notes've, pumped up by the high-hat – it was only favorite: Motörhead! But instead of that gravelly damn near incomprehensible dude's _Lemmy_'s voice, a throaty broken alto was hurling it out there like abuse – a _chick's _voice.

He pivoted on the spot for what seemed like an age, savoring his own moment of revelation – his forehead creased in a frown, thick lips parted and twisting in a curious grimace – face roving ahead over his shoulder, after his thoughts.

Morgan – sh1t, dude, _Morgan!_ – was standing precariously on one of the amps, even higher than the stage, the mic cranked up to reach her mouth, stamping her boots down and punching her hands across the bed of the guitar as if she was trying to rip its guts out. She'd lost the top-hat, so long black hair was spilling in bangs all over her face, clinging in a dew of sweat – to her lips, to her cheeks – under the heat, a dew which oiled her all over. The muscles in her arms were popping as she worked the neck, fist pumping viciously down the frets in a way that made him feel light-headed. There was an orgasmic kind of half-snarlin' scowl on her face, and the action of swinging her piece towards the crowd was pushing her magnificent rack into the light, with two darts of shadow.

Just as he turned full-on to face her, Morgan threw herself back – wildly, breath-takingly – lost in the music, her jet hair whipping ceiling-high like tongues of flame from a volcano. A ripple passed through the rock-hard muscles in her stomach as she took up the slack of her own arching spine, and Morgan _smacked _a horns into the light-bulb directly over her head, shattering it spectacularly in time to hit the first beat of the chorus.

_Hell-__**RAISER!**__ In the thunder and heat! Hell-__**RAISER!**__ Rock you back in your seat!_

Her eyes were wide, whites showing between the strands of her hair, like black licorice ribbons down her face – manic like Cobain, like an addict vibrating under the shakes – and now the crowd were going wild. He meant _really _wild – not that crappy kinda 'happy-go-lucky', 'isn't-this-super-guys' wild, but blood-spilling, head-banging, give-me-an-aneurysm-or-get-the-fck-out-of-my-club wild. Now _that's _what you called a diversion. The chick was going medieval on that instrument, and it was so. friggin. _hot_.

He was too momentarily enthralled, a stupid smirk of appreciation slathered all over his face, to notice that Luke had paused on the outskirts of the dance-floor, to do just what he was doing – to glance back, once, in admiration.

'Alright lads? What's up?' He posed the question amiably as soon as he had loped close enough, still glowing with the heat of the floor.

'Zombies.' Sam answered, knowing that, if anything, Luke wasn't one to question the improbable.

Seeing Morgan's brother appear, Dean hastily tried to wipe the (sadly unmistakable) expression off his face, and only halfway through remembered that this was the guy who'd been scuppering his attempts with Cal all night. The mingling of both guilt and sullen banked resentment was quite a sight, Sam thought. Instead, Dean turned his slack-jawed eyeballing into a tight smile, ears sticking out, and, ignoring his own awkwardness at being around a half-naked dude, Dean held out an arm courteously before him – towards the Mens' Room door.

'After you, man – ladies first.'

'_Hey_,' thought Sam. '_At least he's not saying it to _me...'

Taking the jab in his stride, Luke barged through the swinging door, into the sights of a happily-startled Cal. Dean (sparing dull-eyed Sam a smug beam before ushering him in, too) closed the door after them – with one last appreciative glance over his shoulder, drinking-in the view of Morgan on-stage with a thoughtful expression.

Luke's face lit up as he slouched into the Gents' and almost collided with Cal, who was standing brazenly inside, hands on her hips, surveying the scene critically.

'Alright?' He addressed her, with an upward-jerk of his chin in recognition, the corner of his mouth twitching quirkily.

The door behind him squeaked, like in the saloon of an old Western film, and first Sam and then Dean appeared, to flank him either side – taking in the same view of Cal. Dean, in particular, looked like he was dressed for winter-weather in his leather jacket, compared to Luke's bare silvery-skinned torso.

'So what're we lookin' at here?' Luke asked, like a builder looking at a problematic site. His eyes on the broken window, he crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his 'pits in a way that made his pecs bulge – unaware that he was now forming the middle of a triptych of beautiful men.

'You're looking at where the Zombie was,' Sam enlightened him, gratified in his certainty that Luke wasn't about to second-guess him. Sure enough -

'Ah, right. It's bleeding then?' Luke queried, nodding at the foot-thick go-faster stripe of blood on the wall.

Dean cast an unimpressed eye over him, and then took a step forward, eyes closing, pained.

'Uh, yeah, thanks Sherlock, that's – that's great.'

Luke smacked him jovially and dismissively on the back. 'Just calling it as it I see it, old man.'

Eyes rolling ceilingward (which didn't provide a particularly nice view), Sam sighed, and turned to the one thing guaranteed to shut them both up.

'Cal – what'd you think?'

'Dude, why're you askin' _her_?' Dean blurted out, eyes wide and nonplussed – at which both Sam and Luke's heads turned to regard him in amazed horror. Clearly, Dean had a highly developed death-wish.

Cal turned on him, lips set in a grim line and a lethal spark in her eyes. Every inch of her tensed and ready to explode _the second_ the man opened his mouth.  
"You're kidding me right? You're going to go around questioning my hunting skills like that- to my face, _and _in front of an _audience_?" Her ice blue glare should've frozen him in his tracks.  
Feeling a little twinge of delight at being called part of the "audience", Luke swayed back a step, arms folded, to stand beside a surprisingly _un_suprised Sam.  
'S-o...' he started, in a loud conversational whisper. 'This happen much?'  
Sam answered with a strained nod. "Only every time they get stuck in the same room together."  
'Ah.'  
As usual, Dean had managed get a rise out of her without even trying to.  
'How's it work, then? Talk me through it...'  
Leaning a little closer to Luke and lowering his voice so he wouldn't be heard over the bickering going on right in front of them, Sam shared a little Winchester vs O'Sulivan inside knowledge.  
"Well, Dean could go three ways. The first option would be to apologize," Luke snorted in skepticism, "which would probably work… but-"  
"Hell hasn't frozen over?"  
Sam's brows rose, conceding. "He never has before, so odds are he's not going to start now."  
Head tilted, considering the arguing pair as if he were sizing up the contenders in a boxing match, Luke put a hand to his mouth, his clenched fist pressed to his lips in concentration.  
"Option number two?"  
"Second option would be to talk his way out of it. That's the fun one because no matter what he says it just makes things worse…"  
"Aye, I spotted that.' Luke seemed almost admiring. 'He has a gift."  
As if to illustrate Sam's theory, Dean began to try to explain – it was like watching a tennis-match.  
"Hey, _listen_, I didn't mean…"  
Cal's serve- of course, she wasn't just going to let him off easy.  
"Didn't mean to imply that I have no idea what I'm doing?"  
_Far _more fun to make the guy squirm.  
Argh! That's One-Love, ladies and gents, and all we need is the strawberries & cream!  
"No, _look_, I was just surprised that he asked _you _is all." This being the part where he cleared everything up by following with an '_as opposed to _**me**', except that Cal chose that precise moment to conveniently cut the guy off.  
"Why, 'cause I'm a _chick_?" The thought occurred to her out of the blue, thoroughly insulting just in its possibility.  
A-nd _there's _the cream...  
"No! _Hell _no! I just…" and it was too late for him to say anything to make it right. Her temper was flaring and it was _stand back or get smacked._  
"Because if _that's _the case, I'm going to have a real good time setting you straight on the whole macho-caveman act you've got going on."  
It was funny how the sound of Morgan musically decapitating the people next door seemed to punctuate the scene. _Sometimes, it feels so tough_-  
"_Whoa_! Now wait just a _goddamned _minute…"  
–_but I still ain't, had enough! _  
Luke rubbed distractedly at his chin now, watching with rapt amusement as the argument wore on.

"Ha! She is kicking _arse!_"  
The more agitated Dean got, the more Cal seemed to enjoy herself. Underlying the obvious tension and anger directed at the bane of her existence was her obvious amusement. It was in the twinkle in her eye, and the upward twitch to the corners of her lips even as they were set in a frown.  
"Well, that's pretty easy." Sam said, lashes flickering wearily. "When you figure Dean's already rammed a foot in his _own _mouth..."  
Brother or no, he wasn't about to try to make excuses for him.  
"Just out of interest…" Luke shifted to stay out of the path of the two opponents, who were now circling each other as if seriously contemplating going to blows. "...What was option number three?"

"Nice high-heeled combat boots there, _Anger Management Barbie._"

Sam and Luke closed their eyes, in tandem.  
"_Suicide_." They nodded at each other.  
Crikey, ladies and gents! They've forgotten the match entirely, and they're- yes! They're _hitting each other with the racquets!_  
Dean had apparently decided to toss in his chips and put his actual _life_ on the line.  
Sam could do nothing more than watch the train wreck happen. "Y-eah. _That_ would be it."

"Oh you _didn't!_" She'd barely moved, but those little hands of hers had closed tightly into fists and her cheeks had flushed bright red. Yeah, Dean had managed to piss her off alright, and he wasn't done yet either.

They were forced to step back yet again, because Cal had faked a lunge at Dean. At this point Sam couldn't tear his eyes off the scene even if he'd wanted to. Part of him was was trying to will his brother to mind read. _Dude, would you just _shut up_ already? _Part of him just really wanted to see Cal take that swing. He answered Luke with a hundred watt grin "…going for broke and giving her something to _really _be pissed off about."

Dean flinched back from her false-lunge "Hey, if the _issue _fits…" he taunted her, really getting into it now. "…and let me tell ya, those size nines with the knives in 'em sure point to '_yes_'. Thanks for proving my point, right there, by the way."

Sam nudged Luke with his elbow to get his attention, and Luke extricated his lips from his fingers.  
"Usually, this is the point where she starts throwing punches…" and Sam found himself staring down a double barreled, bright blue glare of death. _Oh c-rap_. She must've heard him… better to not make eye contact… So he not-so subtly shifted his attention away from her death glare to whatever else was in the room – _floor, ceiling, floor, tiles... air..._ – and tried to shuffle behind Luke, just in case.  
Lucky for him, Cal had also caught a glimpse of the sparkle-eyed smirk Luke didn't even _try _to hide and was suddenly distracted with a better idea than tearing Winchester a new one.

"Interesting how the _poster boy _for issues feels the need to point out _mine_." Hey, the obnoxious caveman had it coming.  
"Wait, _what_? What the hell's _that _supposed to mean?" And of course, the man didn't get it right away. That was fine. She didn't mind spelling it out for him.  
"Dude. You're knockin' _my _size nines? Just look at the size of _yours. _I mean, they're definitely a little small for a guy your size _and _you go around driving that great big muscle car. What do you _think _it's supposed to mean?" The implication obvious now: _someone _was overcompensating.  
(In the background, Luke threw his head back and put his hands together, shaking with silent paroxysms of glee).  
To which Dean… didn't have an answer at all. He was still trying to process the fact that she'd somehow managed to insult his baby _and _his manhood in a few short sentences.

Arching a brow, Cal took a moment to enjoy the fruits of her labor before turning to the other two men in the room.  
"Lovely shade of purple, that face, isn't it guys?"  
In reply, Luke leaned back over his own shoulder, and confided to Sam – sadly, in an utterly-conspicuous undertone – as if he thought Cal couldn't actually see them:  
'This girl is _genius._' Behind him, Sam realized the embarrassing position he was in, and smiled awkwardly.

Dean glared a _thanks a lot, man _at him before making a face at Cal the second she turned her back. Taking that as his cue to turn everyone's attention back to the work at hand, Sam cleared his throat. "So, uh, when I first saw the zombie-guy, he was standing by the sinks over there staring into the mirror…" he tilted his chin toward the sinks, if only to try and distract Dean from killing Cal.

As one, they turned to face the spot Sam was pointing to. There was something on the glass… something black and suspiciously hand-shaped…

Dean was the first one to move towards it, perfectly comfortable getting his face right up close to the mirror and whatever-it-was that was on it. "Dude!" He wrinkled his nose, lip curling in mock disgust. "Looks like somebody forgot to wash their hands" Earning himself a chorus of '_Ew_'s before Cal reached out and touched him, hard, upside the back of the head.

"_Huh-_" Dean grunted his surprise. "Oh, _come on_! Was that really necessary?"

Cal smiled sweetly at him before answering with an "Uh, yeah. It kinda was."

And when no one said anything to argue the fact, Dean let out a long sigh of defeat before rolling his eyes over to Sam. "Okay, so what happened when you saw it?"

"Well, it- it sort of _moaned_."

"Moaned like 'Night of the Living Dead- I wanna eat your brains' or moaned like 'oh _yeah_, do that _again_'?" Apparently Dean just wasn't giving up. Cal just shook her head, moving closer to get a better look at the greasy black handprint.  
"Dude, I can't believe you wasted the breath to ask that question."  
Dean just snickered to himself though, because he didn't care if he was the only one who found it funny. The look on Sam's face when he'd asked had been worth it.

There was a quiet moment, while cell phones clicked away as Sam, Luke and Cal took digital shots of the mirror for future reference. Dean spent the better part of that moment scratching his head, trying to figure out where Cal had managed to stash a phone in all that lack of clothing. More disturbing still… where had Luke stashed _his_? A train of thought interrupted (_thank God_) by the sound of Sam's voice as he went on.

"The guy was really out of it. Staring at himself in the mirror like he was trying to figure out what it was he was looking at. I tried to get his attention, asked him if he was alright, but..."  
"No answer, on account of the fact that the dude was a zombie?" He'd forgotten how helpful Cal was as stating the obvious.  
"Nice." This critical remark from an equally (un)helpful Dean, who apparently really _did_ want to get his ass kicked. Ignoring them both and trying hard to hang onto what little patience he was left with, Sam continued, focusing on Luke instead. At least _he'd_ managed to keep the wisecracks to himself.  
"Yeah. So I tried shaking his shoulder, waving a hand and snapping fingers in front of his face. Anything to get any kind of a reaction and nothing again. Not a blink, a flinch, a lip curl… I figured it was probably safe to leave him there for a minute to get help, but when I stepped through the door I realized my hand was dirty…"

"And that's when you figured out it was ectoplasm?"  
"Yeah. It was pretty clear that the guy wasn't a stoner but I figured I'd take another look before I assumed he was a zombie. The crash happened before I got the chance to head back in here. He was gone by the time I stepped back through the door."

Luke finally came un-silent.  
'Ahh, there's your problem.' He revealed, sounding like a car-mechanic. 'Should've called me! I can recognise stoners a mile off.'  
'Takes one to know one, right?' Dean faked polite curiosity.  
Luke a gave a sigh of exaggerated sadness, and looked off into the distance.  
'Well, yeah. And, plus... a friend of mine died of a Heroin-OD.'  
Sam's eyebrows shot up, and he looked to Dean, wondering what the comeback could _possibly _be – and, of course, Dean had nothin'.  
Going for broke, Luke rubbed his thumb sagely along his chin and let his hand swing down to his side.  
'If you want to joke about it, that's fine,' he added beatifically, like Jesus offering Judas some extra rope. 'But I think it's a bit insensitive, 'specially in the presence of a lady.'  
To his credit, Dean _looked around the room_, drawing a blank until he clocked, too late, that Luke was talking about _Cal. _  
_And here, my child! Take this handy Noose-Tying pamphlet and Rickety Chair!_  
Dean opened his mouth and took a breath-  
'Dude-' Sam shook his head minutely, cutting in before his brother _actually _got himself killed. 'Don't-'

"Oh, _no _Winchester. _Please_… do." That itch she'd had earlier? The one that made her fingers curl into her palms? It was back and she knew exactly how to get rid of it… by showing the idiot how well a _lady _could lay him out.

Thankfully, Dean's sense of self-preservation had finally kicked in. Clamping his mouth shut, he wisely chose to stay silent.

Crisis averted, if temporarily, they turned to the broken window.

Luke, carefully picking up his bare feet, peered beyond his toes and spotted shards glinting on the floor. Which was understandable, given that the broken window was directly above them – but... not understandable for this many pieces.

'On the inside.' A voice intoned, as if his disembodied thoughts had suddenly decided to make themselves heard.  
Luke started – it was Sam, over his shoulder.  
He was clenching his jaw. Must've been serious.  
'Could mean zombie-tramp's on the inside. In the non-prison-movie sense.' Luke suggested.  
'Dude,' cut-in a gruff voice, as Dean's footsteps shuffled alongside. 'That is _amazing_.' If Luke had been less half-nekkid? He woulda put a hand on his shoulder as he delivered in a totally-sincere-deadpan: 'You should be a detective or somethin'...'  
'O-ho, I dunno Dean!' Luke returned, tilting his modestly. 'You've always struck me as more the private-_dick _type yourself!'

The metallic chink of a lighter sounded alarmingly behind them, like the water dripping in the sink – which could only mean one thing.  
_Morgan_ had appeared behind them, and lit up – supremely unconcerned with the situation, as all four realized that their subconscious had been telling them, for a while now, that the sound of _Hellraiser _booming from next door, wasn't any more.

'Gee...' She said, warningly, round her cigarette. 'Why don't you just cut out the foreplay all-together, lads, and whip um out now? Save us all the _fckin'_ head-ache.'

As ever, Luke was able to take his sister's sometimes-unsettling vitriol with a pinch more salt than others, and smiled indulgently to himself, as if she was doing nothing more impolite than recounting a pleasant anecdote.  
'Good of you to join us.' He praised her, airily. 'Have fun, dear?'  
'A-whale, of a-time.' Morgan replied robotically, without giving him the dignity of so much as a glance. She was already starting forwards, eyes locked and gleaming on a target: the blood-smeared wall and broken window.

Dean, for his part, felt a swoop in the region of his gut at the sound of her voice – which had a little to do with a feeling of guilt, caught being uncool, and a _lot _to do with the sudden fact of her sweat-sheened presence, sliding its curves by him as she took a pace or two inside. S'matter of fact, he found himself actually _ducking his head _in reverence, as she passed, a look In Recognition of The Bod. A line of amusement cracked itself wryly in his cheek as he realized that – funny how a scathing insult from Cal made his blood boil, but the same from Morgan just- well, it made it boil _different_.

'So what've we got, folks?' She asked, unaware to all this, and _infinitely _more interested in the blood and glass and ecto than in any of the songs she'd just played.  
Cal let out an audible sigh of releif at Morgan's entrance. _Oh thank God. An extra pair of hands to lay on Dean if he didn't control that big mouth of his._  
'Zombie-tramp finger-painting, blood spatter, broken window.' Luke rattled off facetiously.  
'Broken window.' Morgan queried in a withering tone, and her eyes went to his unprotected feet. 'You shouldn't be walking in here without shoes, you tit, you'll cut yourself.'  
'Chill out, mun! I know where all the glass is!'  
They were making a little family scene.  
Cal didn't know whether to 'aw', laugh or roll her eyes.  
'Besides, you know I like going barefoot... or is that bareback?'  
That Luke had an interesting way with words though, so for the time being she just stood back, hand on hips, and listened.  
'Either way, you could catch somethin'.'  
'What am I going to catch?! A _verruca_? A nasty cold?'  
'_AIDs?_'  
_Advantage Morgy _- you could really feel the love.

A-nd yeah. She could sort of see Morgan's point... not to mention the fact that there was a new idea niggling at the back of her mind. A perfect little bit of payback. Stroke of genius courtesy of Morgan. She always had liked that one.

"Hey Sammy? You're a big strapping guy, aren't ya?" She was eyeing him up, gauging the size of both men to be sure it would work if they actually decided to go for it (and for some reason, she thought that maybe Luke just might.)  
"Yeah?" Cautiousness borne of a lifetime being Dean's little brother. That was fine, in this case he was right to be.  
"Oh, I don't know... wide shoulders like yours? Broad _strong_ back...I'm thinking you might be able to help the guy out."

Oh, he _really_ didn't like that mischief sparkling in her eyes. Why did he get the feeling she was leading him into the kind of thing she usually hit Dean with?  
"Meaning?"  
"You familiar with a little thing called a piggy back ride?"  
"You- ...You want me to give _Luke-_?"  
"Yup!"  
Everyone looked at Sam. His face was a picture. A picture of a man who's wondering if he's really just heard what he _thinks _he really just heard. His forehead couldn't have wrinkled any more if you'd asked him to relate the seriousness of the situation through the medium of song. The only word he could possibly find to fit around his bewilderment was:  
'_Why?_'  
Cal smiled sweetly. 'Well, Luke could get a look-see through the high window for starters.'  
'To see what?'  
'If your Zombie-guy's out there.'  
Luke exclaimed. 'Well-done-Cal!' In a sing-song voice.

He span on the spot, holding up his hands to Sam. 'Go on them, give us a lift-'  
'Woah! Dude!' Sam twisted away, keeping Luke in front of him. 'Just- wait a sec! Can't someone else do it?'  
'Alright.' Luke shrugged easily. 'Dean?'

Yeah, cuz _that _was gonna happen.  
'No way in hell dude.' Dean replied smoothly, somehow managing to look smug.

'I could lift Cal up?' Luke suggested, eyes gleaming devilishly at her.  
'Yeah, I'll go for that.' and yeah, Cal _would_, except for the fact that Morgan had a reasonable objection to it.

'She's wearing a _skirt_.' Morgan pointed out.  
('_Barely_...' Someone muttered.)  
'I could lift _you _up.' Luke suggested to Morgan.  
'_No you couldn't._' Said she and Dean, and then looked at each other in surprise.  
'Alright, _Sam _could lift you up.'  
'Dude, no!' came a gruff scornful bark.  
Everyone looked at Dean – who, goldfish-mouthed, hastily back-pedaled. 'I mean...' He lowered his voice to a mild, would-be-rational tone, and wove his head to the rhythm of his words. 'What about your _feet_, man?'

'Yeah!' Luke said, and turned to regard Sam. 'What about my feet? Thanks, Sam, I'm going to die of AIDs now – you've given me AIDs.'  
'Dude!' Sam cried, backed into a corner. 'I'm not giving you AIDs!'

(And the unlucky bar-goer who chose that precise moment to barge in chose the _next _one to barge out.)

Sam looked about him, at the four expectant faces. He was surrounded.  
Dean, in particular, treated his little brother to an insolently speculative stare.  
_Well, Sammy? _Up went the eyebrows. _Y'gunna step up to the plate?_

Sam shifted on his feet, low eyes flickering wearily, and sighed.  
'Alright.' He said, resigned. He shuffled over towards the blood-flecked wall, followed by an equable Luke, who moved behind him.  
Shoulders wound tighter than a spring, Sam doubled over a little-  
_CLICK!_  
Dean had snapped a shot on his phone, followed up with a taut beam – which earned him a deadly-unamused bitch-face.  
Doubtless the photo was of a compromising angle.  
Jerk.

Luke, however, seemed blithely unconcerned, sniffing the cold air as he raised his hands to reach Sam's shoulders.  
'Alright.' He said, slapping his palms together and rubbing them briskly. 'On the count of-_now._'  
And Sam grunted as Luke's full weight landed on his back, knees pinioning his sides, and he smacked big hands around the crook of Luke's jeans-leg to stop his passenger falling off. Luke pulled himself further up, lithely agile about his business, and craned his neck to see further.  
'Nope!' He reported back on the situation as he took in a view of the back alley. 'S'no good, I can't see any-'  
The door swung open again, admitting a blast of bar-noise – and the same bar-goer went saucer-eyed as he took in the turn of events.

'They'll be done in just a sec.' Dean assured him in honeyed cloying tones, and smiled warmly.  
'He's European!' Cal chirped, making this sound just marvelous.  
'I'll come back later!' Came the strangled reply.

'What were you sayin' Lu?' Morgan asked.  
'M'saying I can't- oh, no, hang on! Move over Sam. Little to the left? Little more-? Oh, oh, no, stop- that's it, that's the spot!'  
(Dean could only bow his head for shame).  
'Dude, stop wriggling! Ow! I can't keep balanced-'  
'Oh! In the words of the King – a little less conversation!'  
(Morgan and Cal shook their heads at each other).  
'Giddy-up! Go left! No, mate, the _other _left...'  
'Right?'  
'Exactly!'  
'So what can you _see_, Tonto?' Morgan cut in, reaching the end of her tether.  
'Erm... Nothing.'  
'No Zombie?'  
'Dim.' (which meant "none" in Welsh).  
'Alright. Sam, can you carry the idiot to the door, please?'  
Sam smiled a tight polite smile.  
'Sure!' He burst thickly, out of breath from exertion, and started to turn around.  
'Hi-_ho_, Quicksilver!' Luke urged, and _smacked _Sam on the ass like a thoroughbred.  
This was going to be a _long _night.

Tonto and Quicksilver reached the doorway, and Sam released his passenger, treating the others to the spectacle of seeing him do a complicated kind of shuddering half-leap, just to get out of the way while Luke slid down to the floor, with a muffled, undignified cry of "_Ooofmeplums!_" and fell against the wall. Morgan chose not to waste her breath on this little ballet, turning instead to the mirror, which Dean was still standing beside. Like him, she leaned up close to the hand-print, noting the way it had retained the crisp whorls of the fingerprints, at the top, even though the rest was dripped to a gloopy inconsistency, reaching the sink.

'Oh, Morg? Hurry up, izzit? It's freezing in yer...' Luke said, his accent thickening almost to incomprehensibility.  
His sister turned and pointed at him, dangerously. 'Don't you fýckin' start, now.'  
'Oh, come on, Morgy!' He wheedled, crossing his hands over his chest, to cover himself up a bit. 'My nipples are like bullets – aren't they Sam?' He winked.  
(Sam could only widen his eyes, mutely horrified, and looked impulsively at Dean).  
'I'll give _you _bullets, you ponce...' Morgan muttered. 'It's your own fault for dressing like a pimp.'  
'I didn't dress myself!_ Jazz _did! And then some random girl stole my top!'  
'A likely story!' Morgan turned her back on him again, shaking her head darkly.  
'Bloody pain in my _arse_,' she went on in a stream under her breath. 'Makin' me _hitch_-hike with a bunch of drugged-up _queens..._' She was getting out here lighter. 'Run-in with the _pigs_...' Lighting up a silk-cut from the eternally half-empty pack she carried. 'Playin' _pop_-rock _arse_-gravy for the fýckin' _teeny_-boppers...' Taking a drag. '_Draggin_' me round bloody _dead-end bars_-! no offense Cal-'  
'None taken!'  
'-Bloody slack-jawed _cretin_... you better _hope _there's a Zombie in here, boy! Or tonight's been a total waste uh my time!'  
'Aww. She's cranky,' Luke cooed, in the voice of someone watching a grizzling baby. 'Somebody give her a hug!'

Dean coughed with amusement, realizing that, as the closest to her, that job would've fallen to him – except that it wasn't going to happen.

'So, what's with you and the little-white-stick, huh?'  
He was asking because Morgan was smoking her cigarette with even more acerbity than usual, sucking down the smoke without once exhaling.

'If it _looks _like a duck, and _quacks _like a duck.'  
She muttered aloud to the room, and then breathed all the smoke over the surface of the glass.  
'_Wow!_' The whole hand-print went up with an acrid stink and a leering gust of smoke blackened the ceiling.  
'...You better shoot it.' She sighed, without enthusiasm.

Dean, who had reared away un-smoothly at the little explosion, tried to crank on a self-assured smile.  
'So, uh... s'there anythin' else in here you feel like you gotta blow...?'

Morgan took a drag on her cigarette, and eyed him – vaguely speculatively, the same way Clint Eastwood'd look at someone who'd just insulted his mule. Wondering if God was going to strike him down, or if she'd have to do the dirty work herself.

Dean opened his mouth, wavering, his eyes suddenly glazed.  
He pointed. '...Th-at sounded better in my head.' He admitted.

Luckily for him, he was saved by the bell.  
As it was knocked off the wall by the screaming people.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Please leave us a review : )_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8: **__Murder on the Dance Floor_

Why is it, Cal wondered, that it's always in those quiet moments after one of Winchester's stupid wise-cracks that trouble makes itself known?The timing totally blows when a girl's got a good comeback to throw out there.

She was staring at him, surprised that even _he _would manage to say something so… well, so typically Dean_. If it's not one chick, it's the next one. _The next one apparently being Morgan. Not that she could fault the guy, he had _excellent_ taste. It was just a little suicidal all things considered.  
Sam was looking back and forth between Dean and Morgan, probably waiting to see whether she would choose to let his brother live.  
Luke (who knew damned well that his sister couldn't kill such a helpless fool) was watching Cal... and she wasn't hating it.

The men's room was unnaturally quiet now that there was no longer a band up on stage. A quiet that didn't last more than a moment or two when _CRASH! _Cal was startled by the sound of… what _was _that? Cymbals maybe? It sounded to her like somebody was trying to murder the drum set on stage.

No longer interested in watching Dean getting himself into trouble, she moved toward the door to check things out. There were folk screaming out there and that meant, at the very least, there might be a bar brawl breaking out. If there was a fight going on at O'Leary's she was damn well gonna be a part of it!

Luke was right behind her as she stepped back into the bar-  
'Wahey!' He murmured, delighted. 'It's all kickin' off!'  
-where together they watched chaos happen on the dance floor as crowds of people went running in all different directions. Some hiding under tables, others fighting to get out the door, most of them screaming at the top of their lungs. Okay, so not a bar brawl then (she thought disappointedly)… and what the hell was that thing up on stage anyway?  
_Whatever_ it was, wasn't pretty. Long dark hair hanging over its face in greasy strands, streaks of dirt all over its skin, a long, lanky body that moved hunched over itself like a monkey- a chimpanzee goofing off for the crowd at the zoo.

_This one_ was getting its kicks out of tearing the stage apart, moaning and growling a little louder with every move it made.

Cal was about to make a smartass crack of her own, something to do with clichés and old monster movies, except that's about when she remembered where they were. This wasn't just some job in small town America. This was O'Leary's, and _that_ made it personal.

"Maria, the girls…" Her first thought going to the bar's servers and her partner in crime behind the bar. She hadn't meant to say it out loud but apparently _she had_ because Luke moved closer, under the guise of making room for Sam and Dean – who had finally come out to join them.  
'What was that?' He asked, voice raised to cover the noise.  
No time to answer though. There was a black blur streaking past them, _Morgan_. Time to make a move.

The woman was _amazing_. Halfway across the room, a good dozen feet away from the bar, she leaped into the air in a full-body-dive. Soaring _over _the bar like it was _nothing _she softened the landing with a roll (grabbing her earlier abandoned striped sleeves in the process); stood upright with her bundled-up-sleeves, and pulled out her knife. Poor Maria backed away from her, hands up in the air and very obviously _terrified_.  
Morgan, for her part, tutted at the girl for freaking out over nothing and very casually called out an "Okay, who wants the knife? ...Anybody?"  
_Oh shit_, Luke thought. _She's gone all SAS._  
_Oh yeah, _Cal thought eagerly. _T__ime to play! _

Morgan was throwing the knife up and down, absent-mindedly, like a juggling-baton, in her left hand, waiting for a taker. "No one?? Going, going-?" Cal just smiled, waiting for a cue from the other woman to jump in on the action. Morgan snapped on a big f*ck-off snarl at the lack of response from the rest of the group and slammed it across the room, where it hit home with a loud _thud _into Zombie-Tramp's shoulder. His arms snapped out from his body, whirled around under the impact, and Morgan finished her show-boating: "_Gone_." Her satisfied look enough to make Cal grin.

_Oh yeah_, this was gonna be _fun_!

The knife throwing had not gone unnoticed by the bar's patrons. The screams in the background had picked up and become panicked, joined by the sounds of smashing glass and animalistic _rawr_ing from the zombie.

Morgan pulled Mags out, locked her elbows to load, and turned her side-on, firing repeatedly. Cal was in a half crouch, using one of the round wooden tables that had been turned over on its side as shielding and was pulling out the long narrow knives that were sheathed in her boots. Just as the Winchesters started thinking it was a good moment to duck, Luke skidded across the floor on his knees, thudded into the table with Cal, and flashed a glittering adrenalin-pumped smile her way: 'Hey!' Ecstatic. He did a double-take at the sight of the cutlery, and let out a long, low whistle.

Behind them, Sam and Dean – stuck for cover – dove behind the wall of booths, trying to get closer to the stage. Dean's cursing getting louder by the second because the hoboup there kept throwing heavy, blunt objects at their heads whenever it caught a glimpse of them. (And how _the hell_ he managed to see past all that _hair _was anybody's guess.) Dean got side-swiped by the smaller of the two amps and swore loudly.  
"_Son of a bitch!_"  
She just couldn't resist _that _one, now could she?  
"Hey, its not the zombie's momma fault that you're such an easy target Dean!" Shouting loud enough to be heard over the screams, gunfire and zombie groans, Cal was sure the whole place heard her. Dean, who was now pink-faced with anger, shouted right back at her.  
"You're lucky I'm not _packing_ Cal, or you'd be dodging bullets right now!"  
Speaking of packing- what she wouldn't do to get her hands on her own piece right about now…

Morgan (as if reading Cal's mind) stood back, behind the bar, leaning back to see underneath the shelf, her hands spread wide, calling out "Cal! You got a piece under here, or what?"  
"'_Course _I do!" What kind of a question was that? Didn't _everyone_? "Under the sink, behind the bottle of JD." Cal's not-so-secret stash.  
Seconds later there was a familiar, black Jericho 941FSL flying through the air toward her. Luke took a quick look at Cal's hands, which were both gripping knife hilts, and reached up to catch it – snatched it out of the air. The other hand he cupped to his mouth, head bobbing over the top of the table for a moment: 'Oi!' He shouted at his sister. 'Can we have some peanuts with that!?"

'F*ck off!'

Luke chuckled to himself, his bare back to the table – jolting underneath him as people and missiles hit the other side – calmly cocked Cal's gun for her, and presented it to its owner with the same flourish as a wine-waiter. _Now here's a man who can appreciate the finer things in life,_ thought Cal.

'Can I borrow your knives?' He asked, loudly, wincing at the volume of his own voice, hurled in this girl's face.  
'Sure!' Cal yelled back, looking like she was having as much fun as him.

They swapped, Luke cutting quite the figure, naked from the waist up in torn jeans, twirling a pair of wicked-sharp knives round like drummer's sticks – Cal equally impressive, robot-spunk handkerchief top shimmering as she shook under each impact, her boots chunked-up and filling the space below her long legs, squeezing off shots around the side of the table.

Luke started to chop up bits of splintered wood strewn across the floor (Cal's knives were that sharp) into shards, and darted up, infuriatingly, like a fairground whack-attack game, to _whip _them at the stage like a 3D extreme game of darts.

'Fifty points if you can get it in the eye!' He suggested to Cal, who spared him a look of wry amusement at his MO.

"Fifty points? Okay." Equal parts tease and challenge she shot off another round, ignoring the target entirely, eyes glued to his and _nailing _it. "Just so you know, I'll be cashing those in later." A promising smile as she turned back toward the stage.

'Sam! Dean!' He bellowed, when he'd run out of stakes. 'What's the plan?!'  
They had moved inside the booth. Sam was a jumble of flopping limbs, trying to fit his massive frame in, half on the bench and half under the Formica-topped table, Dean backed up like James Bond to the divider between their booth and the next, neck twanging as he tried to look out for an opening. All that was missing was the fire-power.

Dean looked across at Luke like he was insane, face screwed up, eyes flashing.  
'Take out the _Zombie_!' he shouted.  
Well, _duh_. So Luke looked to Sam, the brainy one, to see what word of wisdom he had to impart on the matter – what he actually got was the word: '_Tortoise!_'

After his big brother had finished treating him to the derisive look he deserved for that piece of weirdness, he and Luke exchanged a careful glance across the room.

Sam, hands still up over his head, rolled his eyes. 'Formation!' He shouted – which... seemed to mean something to Dean, 'cause his eyes filled with understanding, and he turned his attention instead to the table between them, looking underneath, at the base pinning it to the ground. _CRACK! _Both Sam and Dean lashed out, and the thing broke company with the floor. The brothers pushed it over on its side, _CRASH!_ like the one Cal and Luke were using, and started to push. Like the plate of a bulldozer, a battering-ram- Oh! A _battering_-ram! _That's _what they were thinking!

Luke and Cal looked to each other, laughing at the novelty as both clocked the reasoning behind.

The Winchesters' table screeched along the floor, two big guys crouched rather ridiculously behind it, shunting aside any hysterical punters who tried to run that way, pushing them towards the fire-exits, effectively blocking all the new pieces of musical equipment that Mr. Munster decided they needed to receive by air. Luke shuffled forwards as the table locked with theirs, glancing round with a grin of congratulations. Dean, in particular, looked very stupid, with the halves of his jacket splayed out over his bandy-legged knees where he crouched. He was trying to look over the top.

'_Where the hell's Morgan?!_' He shouted, scowling, and Luke nodded in his sister's direction with a weary eye.  
Dean bobbed up his head up to see.

She was telling Cal's friend to crouch down and stay there.  
How could she be smoking, _now_?! No! Wait, she wasn't! She was tearing up a cloth from the sink, dousing it in booze, tucking it into the top of a bottle and – dude – _setting it on fire!_ She picked one, weighed it in her hand – right this time – and hurled it over at the stage. Dean, and by now the others, watched It arch across the air, as it exploded in a blaze of fire, hit the Zombie, suddenly screaming in its fury.

Cal hooted her praise at Morgan's quick thinking. _"Go Morg!"_

Dean sat back down, licking his lips, had to shake his head once. _Damn_.

'_So what now?!_' He yelled to Sam, over the sound of Cal's gunfire – close enough to hurt.  
Sam squinted up at him from where he crouched. '_Now we push!_'

Overhearing, Luke cupped his hand to his mouth again, reversing the direction of the knife so he didn't slice his own face open.

'_Oh! Morg! Get in on this!_' He shouted, veins popping in his neck under the pressure.

Morgan heard him, watched the strange contraption – two tables, buffeting the crowd aside, the four of them appearing to her view as it moved position, like the legs of a crab, a blaze of gunfire from Cal's hands lining the edge in light, revealing it as their vehicle. Morgan planted a boot on the top of the high bar (surprisingly flexible, Dean thought) among the bottles, stood right up on top - just like Cal – and jumped off.

She landed with a _BOOM _behind them, taking the time to reload Mags while she had the chance.

'Gosh!' She shouted acerbically. 'A hand-grenade would be really _f*ckin' _useful about now, don't y'think?!'

And if Cal hadn't been so busy firing, she'd have put her two cents in agreement with her.

'You'd never have fit 'em in your pockets!' Luke shouted back – obviously revisiting an old argument.

They pushed the tables on, path curving round, Sam and Dean braced their shoulders against it. The Zombie was roaring, kicking a loud hole in the snare, someone had torn the door off its hinges in an attempt to get out, people flooding in a screaming smoke-choked throng through the narrow space, ribs bruising. One last push, and they were against the stage!

_Time to charge._

'Get the girls up!' Luke bellowed.  
A hell of an improvement over the Winchester way of thinking, in Cal's opinion, considering they were usually the one's telling her to stay behind where it was safe.

Sam and Dean reached for Cal and Morgan, the armed ones, propelled them pitilessly upwards, right into the face of the raging monster, Luke followed after them, lighter than Dean able to stand on the edge of the table and almost jump up. Dean getting a foot-up from Sam, tall enough to climb on his own. And they were on-stage again! Morgan and Cal, shoulder to shoulder, fingers cramped around their triggers, boots in the whiskey-fire creeping along the sprung boards. Luke, picking up his feet in fear, throwing Cal's knives beside them, then Sam and Dean, grabbing anything heavy they could reach and throwing it at the thing – cuz yeah, payback _is _a bitch.

Together, bit by bit, they forced the Zombie back – the people who had been hiding found the courage and space to come out and run, urged on by the two big guys, Winchesters, who waved them in the right direction. Figures of shuddering relief.

But Morgan and Cal had to run out of bullets sometime.  
Morgan had been firing longer – went first, swore loudly as she clicked out, lowered her gun, and ducked back athletically as a filthy hand swung through the air, swiping at her face, smacked it down scornfully with the flat of her hand, like a cat batting at butterflies.

'Over to you!' She shouted at Cal, huge dark eyes looking _scary _as she stood aside, out of the line of fire – pulled Luke with her, unarmed now, all his borrowed blades used. The Zombie staggered on, hands stereotypically outstretched, groaning under the onslaught of gunfire obliterating its body, its face, a flicker of nerves passed Cal's face – she knew her weapon, she knew she was running low. Sam and Dean stepped up, as her Jericho sputtered into silence, took their last thing to throw – the sub-woofers, torn from the edge. Half smashed, half threw them, from two sides, into the Zombie's head – it only roared the louder, tilting head back, broken misshapen mouth gaping open as spittle and sourceless hatred flew at them. Its two arms struck out, preternaturally strong, and caught both brothers in the throat, pushed them aside.

Which left only...

Tombob. Standing on the edge of the stage, singed, scared, top-hat slipping and broken at the top – he'd crept from the wings, about to take his chance to escape. Except... except... here was a different kind of chance, wasn't there?

And then he did something so heroic, so selfless, so _rock and roll_, that no one he ever told about it, from that day to the next, ever believed him.  
He picked up the nearest thing – which was a guitar – and smashed it over the Zombie.  
Ozzy Osbourne would have been proud.

Zombie-Tramp went _down_, vanishing over the edge of the stage, down the several feet to the floor, destroying the table-tortoise as it went – and now something, some wraith-ish specter, was striding through the smoke to Tombob, bits of string and mahogany in his hands – who felt like his knees would buckle if this turned out to be something else monstrous. It wasn't. It was that ridiculously-hot European chick, done pulling her idiot-brother out of harm- and fire-hazard's way. She clouted the little guy on the arm, as hard as any of his friends, and nodded her head.  
'_Nicely done_.'

All Tombob could say was: 'Mmmmff!!'

The two bigs guys he didn't know were lying messily on the stage, and the stubbled one grumbled belligerently under his breath, as they got to their feet – _friggin' karate-chop my ass!! _He checked the other one for injury, like a mother hen, both seemingly concerned with the state of each other's necks. The really-tall one patted him on the shoulder, with kind eyes.

'Thanks, dude.'  
'Mmmmf...?'  
'_Wow_, wow! _Hang _on!' That was the blond brother, standing where he'd been pushed – next to the other hot chick- holding his hands up as if to put a halt to the proceedings. He looked pale and horrified.

'_Tombob_.' He began, in a tone of utmost deliberation, like the fate of the world rested on the reply. '_What guitar was that?_'  
The others recoiled, disgusted with their friend for the amateur dramatics.  
'Tombob' looked at the instrument still drooping from his fingers. 'Uh....?'  
'Relax,' his sister cut in, scathing. 'It's _blue_. It's not the Les Paul.'

Blond-guy almost visibly _deflated _with relief, walked forwards, grabbed Tombob's face – _Tombob, you absolute star_ – and planted a kiss on his forehead. Tombob was too shell-shocked to care... but not so shell-shocked that he neglected to look hopefully at Morgan, too, to see if she'd express her gratitude in the same way. No? Oh well. Figures, you can't have everything.

Cal was basking in the after glow of a good fight, watching as Luke strode over to the side of the stage to help Morgan lower a shell-shocked Tombob to the ground below. She wasn't too proud to admit to herself that she was holding out for the money shot, wanting to get a good look at the guy's assets as he bent over the edge.

He was looking too, risking a stealthy slide of the eyes as she dusted off her skirt and blouse, admiring her package as she had his. The sly smile that spread over his lips as she picked up her knives and slid them back into her boots mirrored her own… until something other than Luke finally caught her eye.

Maria was freaking out behind the bar, hitting the flames that were quickly spreading across it with a towel, trying to put them out. The stage was burning too, along with one of the booths and a couple of tables. Slow burning flames that were just dancing over the top of the alcohol it had taken to… not much damage yet but if left to its own devices the whole place would go up in smoke, literally. Suddenly those Molotov cocktails didn't seem as brilliant an idea as she'd originally thought.

First things first though, there was a practical use for that fire. Might as well get rid of the zombie corpse before the cops and firemen arrived.

"Hey Sam!" Because he was closest to the edge of the stage. "Give me a hand with the zombie?"

Took him a second to register what she was asking him to do. The first thought that came to mind was that they'd already finished it off. But then Cal nodded at the flames and the lightbulb went on. _Salt and burn, of course!_

Dean had apparently been thinking along those same lines too, because he was collecting salt shakers from the tables that were still standing.

Sam spared a moment's regret for the guy the zombie had once been, peering over the side of the stage.

'Uh... guys?' This was a first, even for them.

'What?' The question coming to him in surround sound from several different distracted voices. They wouldn't be distracted for long.

'It's not there.' The zombie wasn't where they'd left it.

Just one voice this time, accompanied by an upward tip of chin, as Dean threw him a '…Come again?!'

'It's not there.' Sam repeated, looking over the side of the stage again, as if to make sure.

'Whaddya mean _it's not there_?!' Cal this time, visibly annoyed and obviously not believing what she'd heard.

'I mean it's not there! It's gone!' The third time being the charm, apparently, because he now had everyone's attention. They were all rushing over to see for themselves. Dean was down on the dance floor, with an armload of salt shakers staring at his boots. He was standing right where the zombie had fallen, nothing more than a blood smear there now. "Dude," and there was that confused, surprised look that always somehow managed to make him look like he was five. "It's not there."

As frustrating as it was that it took three tries and everyone rushing over to see for themselves in order for them to believe him, Sam couldn't help the part relieved, part annoyed _Thank you. _

Morgan was seriously unamused. "We've _lost _the Zombie." Fighting the zombie had been fun, but now they were facing a long night of hunting it down.

"Well, now, that's just_ careless!_" Luke, the straight-faced funny man to Morgan's serious one. He earned himself a chuckle from Cal with that one too, before she threw in her own opinion on this newest turn of events. "On the upside – looks like things just got interesting!" Because she was always up for a little excitement.

The Winchesters let out a derisive snort, letting her know exactly how interesting they found the prospect of spending the night combing the streets of New York for the Zombie-Tramp they all thought they'd already taken care of.

Luke sandwiched himself between them, amiably throwing an arm over their shoulders, and allowing his bottom lip to wobble with emotion.

'Y'know... I have the feeling this could be the start of something beautiful!!' He said, his voice so choked by the end that only dogs could hear him. (All it earned him was a pointed jab in the ribs.)

Dean could see where this was headed, the five of them cramped into the Impala, and cringed inwardly just thinking of what the extra weight might do to the shocks. "Okay." A loud, resigned sigh later. "Let's hit the road. Sooner we get out there the better chance we have to find it."

In the background there was still the soft thwapping sound of cloth on polished wood. Maria was still frantically flapping at flames, squeaking out a '_Little Help!?!' _as she shot a desperate look at Cal and did her best to avoid making eye contact with Morgan.

Right. The fire.

"We're not going anywhere Dean."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Why _not_?"

"Because we're not just going to take off and let my favorite bar burn down. There's a fire extinguisher right next to you, there. Put down the salt and make yourself useful for a change." 'Yeah Dean!' Luke chimed in accusingly, in the manner of the skinny bully who leans around the big one and shakes his fist. He was having a whale of a time.

Meanwhile, Cal didn't even blink, just hopped off the stage in that indecent little get-up of hers and _assumed_ he'd fall in line and do as he'd been told. He was still holding the salt shakers when Cal slinked past him, getting up into his personal space and gracing him with the sweet, evil little smile that never failed to make his skin crawl.

"Oh, and Dean?" An innocently arched brow that told him she was up to something. "We're going to need to borrow your car to track the Zobo down."

That damned woman had _some nerve_ volunteering his baby to taxi everybody around… blowing out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, he shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

Sam, who had followed Cal offstage, frowned as he looked his brother up and down. "What?"

"S'just.... the thought of that chick in _my car_...." Dean muttered unhappily, like a sulky schoolboy.

"Pff" Typical Dean, being over protective of the Impala. "Dude, suck it up!"

Of course, Sam's scorn didn't go unavenged. Once he'd finished pulling a sullen smacked-ass face, and muttering all the more under his breath and looking at his feet as his scuffed them, Dean sauntered off after Morgan. She was leading Tombob to the bar with an iron grip on his arm, dropping him into the one remaining stool, oblivious to the fire raging right in front of them, and handing him one of her booze-bombs.

'Hey,' he said, trying to be cool, but uncertain what to do with his big lips as he propped up an elbow on the bar, leaned into her field of vision. 'Need a hand?'  
'No, ta.' Morgan replied mildly, absorbed in wrenching the plug out of the bottle because watching the kid try to do it himself was just painful.  
Dean tried to move closer, hindered by the fact that Tombob was sitting inbetween them.  
'Get that down you.' He heard her mutter to the kid, smacking him on the back, and only then did he realize how much his hand was shaking as he gripped the bottle of black-label and put it to his lips.

Just then, Morgan spotted something on the floor and doubled over to reach it, bringing her face into alarmingly close proximity with Tombob's lap (Dean looked around at the guy, startled and angry, thinking for a split-second that this upstart kid was getting _his _luck). Something a teenage boy was just not equipped to deal with. Tombob convulsed with hormonal panic and horror, did the only thing he could do – he turned, and sprayed a mist of it right into Dean's resigned face. You could even hear it pattering over the sound of the flames.

Oblivious, Morgan straightened up with a battered pair of Converse in her hands, and met the sight of Tombob, almost cringing away from a Dean who's face had gone dangerously blank.

'Is that _sweat_?' She asked him, meaning the sheen of moisture on Dean's face.  
He scrubbed a hand down his features, suddenly tired with Fate's equivalent of having the rug out pulled from under his feet and then being wrapped up in it and tossed off a bridge.  
'_Yeah_.' He said, tonelessly and through gritted teeth, glaring one last time at Tombob, who had the good grace to look ashamed of himself. 'I'm just gonna get a fire-extinguisher.'

Dean leaned right over the bar this time, scooped one up from the shelf below, where he'd seen a bartender use it earlier, turned on his heel, and stalked off. He paused to give the fire Maria was fighting a cursory skirt of foam, and then went on his merry way back to Sam.... Sam, who, he saw straight off, had _clearly _observed the whole thing.

'Dude,' Sam muttered, squinting in half-laughing sympathy at the specter of his big brother, striding back to him through the rubble and the flame. 'You're _shiny_!' He added in wonder.  
'Hey, Sammy,' Dean said, deadpan. 'Don't look now, but your shoelaces're on fire.'  
'What? No they aren't.'  
'Yeah. They _are_. They _totally_ are.'

Dean pointed the hose, and let rip. All Sam could do was stand there, glaring unblinkingly into Dean's bright little shit-eating smile, clinging to the last few vestiges of his dignity as his feet disappeared in a mountain of cold, soaking white foam. Dean kept the foam coming... and coming... and coming...

'There!' He chirped as the extinguisher spit itself out into nothing. 'All gone!'  
He smiled again.  
'_Hysterical_, Dean.' Sam informed him in a deadly monotone. 'I'd laugh-' he waved an arm, '-f'only I wasn't _crying _inside.'  
(Which drew an abashed tuck of the chin from Dean, as he pretended he _wasn't _trying and failing to think up a comeback).  
Well, when in doubt: '_Shut up.._.'


End file.
